


washed away

by bellaahh-x (thestarsareneverfaraway)



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 78,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsareneverfaraway/pseuds/bellaahh-x
Summary: the monster that was 'nam took him under, and the gang's left wondering if sodapop curtis can make it out whole again.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Outsiders or it's characters.

_The memories leading up to Sodapop Curtis' practical loss of sanity were still fresh in his own mind, though they seemed like they were centuries ago. The gut-wrenching memories always made him a fool when he'd be certain that they were forgotten, only for them to come crashing down on him like a ton of lead―always at the worst moments. Sodapop often reminisced one of those sweet childhood memories, whether it be playing in the park with his brothers or mom's soft, gentle voice while she took care of him when he was ill. It didn't matter, because the relief of the high never lasted. And those memories―crumbled to dust once the others arose from the still, deep waters. They consumed him, ate away at him like if he was nothing but a rotting corpse._

_Time took its course and just like that, he was dead to the world._

_Then, the introduction of a particular something would be the solution to all Sodapop's problems, but at the same time, would bring the destruction of himself. As long as they were one, there would be no more pain. He would be given a set of wings and be taken to another realm that was truly worthwhile. And even if it didn't last forever, it was enough for a man like him. It became the only thing besides his brothers to live another day, no matter the weeks of contemplating if he should just end it all, then and there. He knew not only his brothers but also the gang needed him. But it wasn't easy for Sodapop to remember―that is, not when he's trapped in a drug-induced daze._

_It was a lovely summer's day―the sky perfectly blue with crisp breezes coming every now and then, the sun shining comfortably on Soda's skin as he drove. Tulsa wasn't known for being beautiful but the town surely had its moments. For once in a blue moon, he was ecstatic and yet there was nothing that could truly take the despair away, was there?_

_Sodapop made his way into the run-down home and down the basement with cash in his hand, an action that had become routine in the past few months. It would be an hour or two before Pony and Darry would start looking for him, so for the time being, he was in the clear. He was grateful for every second of it, and the moment he saw the light from the bottom of the staircase and the sound of music in the distance, Soda felt a sense of comfort―almost like the one he feels from arriving home. But that feeling had come to dissipate and he isn't sure why._

_"Hey Sodapop, how ya doin'?" came a soft voice as he takes his last steps into the basement. He instantly recognizes the voice as Clarissa, the brunette chick with the green eyes who always had a smile on her face. Was never been much of a talker, more of a laugher if you were to put it into words. It was the kind of word that could be used to describe everyone down there, all hippies, except Sodapop―more times high out of their minds than not. She wasn't real pretty, but she was friendly. "You looking to get a fix, baby?"_

_"Yeah, how much do I need to pay?" Sodapop answers tight-lipped, already getting antsy from waiting. Though no one was exactly a seller there it was where the drugs circulated, kind of like a commune but in an odd fashion―you'd have to pay to get the stuff and yet not directly from a dealer. The war veteran didn't want to have insight as for what it was all about, so he never dwelled in deeper―Soda was better off that way._

_"Oh, nothin hun. Not today..."_

_"You sure?"_

"Yeah...Now come here," Clarissa giggled. Sodapop simply assumes she's out of it at this point―doesn't want to deal with much―and so she leads him to a table. Must have been rather lost in thought, because the next thing he sees is a needle in her hand placed it into his. Soda's heart flutters with excitement at one look. There  _were times where he would let his demons take over. These were one of those moments._ _"There ya go..."_

_Soda couldn't hear the rest of what she was saying and with the needle had already gone through his skin, it was obvious he'd gotten a little too involved in shooting up just right. Before the effects could settle, he went to sit with some of the broads on one of the couches. He feels better and better as the heroin courses through his blood, a mere spectator to the way his muscles loosen up as Janis Joplin plays on the radio. He puts his arm around an insignificant blonde..._

Darrel Curtis can't help but believe he's one fail of a brother. He can't help himself when anger gets the best of him, and the result _―_ two best buddies dead, and a very sick Ponyboy. Neither did _―_ could _―_ he find a way of keeping Soda from getting shipped like a package to Vietnam. He could not shield him from the horrors of war and as a result, his little brother is a troubled heroin fiend. He'd found faith in a man upstairs since the real life had been too much to handle _―_ thought that He could help him. No matter the effort or trust, Sodapop just can't seem to snap out of his deluded, fucked up state of mind. Just like the war fought across the world, Soda's got his own war inside that head of his. The group of boys had thought that the arrival of the middle Curtis brother would be the magical band-aid, healing all the wounds cut from when he was gone.

But, boy...were they far from right.

Darry and Ponyboy had been calling out Soda's name in an attempt he'd rise from the bed that seemed all too sacred to the war veteran, but not a sound was heard from the room. It made the eldest brother's heart drop all the way down to his toes since the hunch of something gone wrong—something he could've sworn he'd felt in the air—had seemingly been proved. He wasn't sure of how he got the courage to rush into the room, but what he knew was that the sight shook him to the very core. Sodapop's sheets were twisted all around him, the only movement coming from a chest that struggled to even out each faint, shallow breath. His mouth and fingertips had shifted into an eerie shade of blue, eyelids shut closed. Darry's heart squeezed in his chest as he impulsively sprang into action, shaking Soda's limp form something fierce. When no reaction came, Darry delicately cupped his face in his hands and with the sound of a sniffling noise coming from behind, tears began to form in the back of his eyes.

"Sodapop...Please wake up, little buddy," Darry frantically begged as he lightly tapped Soda's cheek, words tumbling out of his mouth without a touch of control. "Cmon Soda, wake up for me."

"Dar, what do we do?" Ponyboy spoke shakily as he released a choked sob. He pulled his big brother out of the way to get a closer look at Soda. If there was one thing clear through the fog, he was still breathing. Which also meant he had a chance, seconds he couldn't waste.

"Get the keys to the truck, we're going to the hospital. Hurry," Darry quickly responded, putting quite an emphasis on the word 'hurry'. He took Sodapop, who was as limp as a rag doll into his arms, cradling him protectively against his chest. He wasn't going to take any chances _―_ his brother needed to stay alive. The world around him seemed to have some dreamlike quality, since the next thing he knew he was setting Soda into the back seat. 

They took off within minutes to the hospital. Darry had his eyes staring intently at the road in an attempt to distract himself, silent tears streaming down his face. Even so, he went against his own wishes and turned his head to see Sodapop still unconscious as Ponyboy held him in his arms. Not that he could bear to look for no more than a few seconds.

"How much longer, Darry?" Ponyboy asked softly, sounding so much younger in the moment _―_ almost as if he were 14 again instead of going-on 18.

"Not much longer, Pone. Make sure he's breathing, alright?"

A few minutes later, Darry had rolled up to the parking lot of the Emergency Room and once the car had stopped, both brothers were on their feet in seconds. Darry carried his blue-tinted, oxygen-deprived little brother through the double doors as a hysterical brother ran past for help. He was in a trance as the hospital staff laid him on a stretcher then wheeled him away, the sound of Darry's voice sounding as if it were from a great distance rather than in his sight-line. The air had suddenly felt harder to breathe when he began to sway lightly on his feet and to his unknown wishes, there was a presence to grab his arm and push him into a seat.

There, the two brothers―trapped in a shock-induced daze―waited impatiently.


	2. II

_"Sodapop Patrick, where do you think you're going?" Darry sharply questioned, watching as Soda put on his raincoat, grabbed some things off the counter and took the keys to the truck. It was late in the evening, pouring outside as it usually did in the state of Oklahoma. An unexpected bolt of lightning had made its appearance with a loud crack causing Soda to flinch as he headed for the front door. "Sodapop," he repeated, making his way towards Soda as it opened with a loud creak._

_There were times where Soda's big brother was no match for him so he chose to give in to his big brother. But not even one like Darry was free from the human art of rebellion. He turned his body to face him, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I ain't no little kid, Dar. I can go out by myself, can't I?"_

_"Sure you can, but if you're gonna put more poison in yourself, it's my damn responsibility to keep you from doing so. I don't want you getting your hands on any of it!" he yelled._

_"Cmon Dar, all I gotta do is get out of this house, even blow off some steam with Stevie. Is there a problem with that?" Soda shot back, becoming uneasy as his body craved for more. He was itching badly to get a fix and accompanied by a sick feeling in his stomach. What he did not want not was to deal with a still very over-protective Darry out of all things._

_Darry sighed, putting his arm against the doorframe for support as he grew weary. "For the love of God, I ain't letting you destroy your life any longer. One day you're going to-"_

_"Glory, what do you think I'll do? Don't get your panties in a twist. I won't." Soda interrupted, and before he could get a response Sodapop stormed out into the front porch, making his way to the truck. He didn't bother to look back as the engine started with a purr, driving off to what he knew as the second-best place on earth— one spot behind home of course._

_Little did Darry know what Sodapop would bring in the back of the truck. And they wouldn't, not for some time anyway. What was certain though was that it would drastically change the trajectory of the Curtis brother's lives._

The two brothers had been waiting for a little over an hour to hear news about their troubled brother's condition. It was also at the same time that Darry suddenly realized that he would have to begrudgingly call Steve and Two-Bit about the events that had transpired―the events that he simply wishes he could wash out of his mind. Darry could not control how they kept repeating, visibly shuddering each time he relived seeing Soda's challenge to do something as simple as breath.

Fortunately, the haze surrounding his brain had been disappearing and he could feel gain the ability to pull himself together. On the other hand, Ponyboy looked in distress even as he slept. His brows were scrunched up and his breathing was fast, similar to when he used to have nightmares. Darry could only hope he wouldn't have to confront the hell created by his own mind for too long.

It was close to midnight and though Darry's body was tired, his mind felt unnaturally awake. The waiting area of the Emergency Room was about empty so he didn't mind letting out a few tears. At this point, he couldn't stop the feeling within him to keep the dam pouring out of its cracks. If he had to wait one more hour to find out how Soda was doing, he wouldn't help but to go insane.

Despite Darry's own protests he leaned back and let his eyelids shut, enjoying the darkness that came with it. It was as if the storm was nearly over and only clouds were left in the sky. Not aware of how much time had passed, he was just about to nod off when the sounds of Ponyboy abruptly shifting in his chair broke the near silence. He opened his eyes to see Pony squirming uncomfortably as he sat sleeping, eyes moving from side-to-side underneath the lids.

Darry's breath hitched as a wave of sympathy rushed over him, putting a hand on his trembling shoulder and squeezing it gently. "Ponyboy its okay, it's just a dream. You gotta wake up for me," he whispered. Thankfully without much trouble, Ponyboy's eyes flew open as his body gave a jolt, gasping heavily as he took in his surroundings.

Darry let out a sigh of relief, "It's alright Pony, you gotta be quiet. We're in the hospital, remember?" Pony turned to look at him groggily, nodding slightly in response. Darry could tell he was embarrassed, being older and still having nightmares as if he had just turned 14 again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Ponyboy frowned, then shook his head. Based on the circumstances, he decided not to press matters any further. He rubbed his eyes, "Do you know where Soda is?"

"Not yet, Pone. You only dozed off half an hour ago." Darry answered, who relieved to see his younger brother finally settle down. But even as his breaths slowly became even, there was still a deep look of worry in Pony's eyes. For a second, he wondered if his own looked the same.

That was when a voice came from somewhere in the distance, causing Darry's heart to nearly skip a beat. "Family of Sodapop Curtis?" it called out, and he stood up so quickly that the room spun for a few seconds, merely shaking the feeling off as his eyes searched the room only to see a man, presumably a doctor. It was only Darry's feet that had the chance to move rather than his mind, scurrying off to him as if his existence were a lifeline.

"I'm Dr. Clark. Are you Darrel Curtis?" the man asked softly, the tone of his voice a sharp contrast to the two brother's roaring emotions. "Yes," Darry answered, words coming out unintentionally harsh. He was in no mood for questioning, so he cut straight to the chase. "How is he doing?"

"We did everything we could for him. Sodapop's hanging in there, but he's in critical condition." The words 'critical condition' hit too close to home for Ponyboy, whose breath had got caught up in his throat.

Dr. Clark continued despite Ponyboy's inner protest, lowering his voice. "His lungs nearly stopped working—thankfully we were able to prevent that from happening— but his lungs aren't holding up too well. Earlier today, we had to put him on a ventilator."

Ponyboy's emotions had grown beyond the best of him, causing him to spill out a few words without fault. "Will he be okay?" he breathed out, not caring if how foolish it might have sounded at that second.

"Sodapop's a fighter, so I am optimistic that he will recover. But there's something I must discuss with you," the doctor replied grimly. Pony could feel his high hopes go down the drain after each word. Could this get any worse?

"Since he was suffering from a clear shortage of oxygen in his bloodstream when he came in, I'm sorry to tell you this but I can't guarantee that there won't be permanent brain damage. Sodapop has been shown to be unresponsive in cognitive examinations, which further leads me to conclude that he might be in a coma."

Darry's stomach lurched and for a moment, he was afraid he could lose the contents of his stomach right there. He can hear his kid brother let out a deep gasp alongside him. "W-What? Will he wake up?"

Dr. Clark took longer than Darry wanted him to provide an answer, feeling the blood pounding in his ears."I don't know, Darrel. It's too early to assume that he won't. If there's one thing, I have hope for Sodapop,"

"...Can we see him?"

"Yes, however only for a limited amount of time— 30 minutes at most. Come with me," leading Ponyboy and Darry through the many halls of the hospital and into an elevator. Pony shuddered when his eyes peered at the sign with the words 'Intensive Care Unit' on it— the worse recollections of his life were produced right here, and he wasn't sure if he could handle the circumstances for any longer.

They stopped once they had made their way front of a room, the room Pony knew he was forced to come to grips that a critically-ill Sodapop was fighting for his life. "In 30 minutes, a nurse will come here to escort you," Mr. Clark said as he opened the door to the thankfully private room. Darry was the first one to go in, and within seconds he would discover that nothing in the world would have prepared him and Ponyboy for what they were going to see.


	3. III

_Not only was Sodapop Curtis digging smack, but he was also digging his own grave. He knew that himself but as the days came and went, the less he bothered— The more flashbacks that left him slipping further away from sanity, the more junk he would pull into the needle. There was a point where the only thing in the world he gave a damn about was getting his hands on it no matter the form it came, performing the most reckless of actions even if it were to give him only a single gram. It was as if his mind had somehow reprogrammed itself to care for his vice cravings but dismiss the rest— everything and anything that truly made him whole. There wasn't a doubt that it was killing him, inflicting punch after punch on his mind, body, and soul._

_"Soda, you've got to be kidding me," muttered Steve, pacing the room back and forth in an attempt to figure out a way to assess whatever his best friend had put himself into. He'd found him alone, high out of his mind in an alleyway out of all places when making his way home. With hindsight, Steve had found it disturbing that he'd mistaken someone he'd known for over a decade for a lowly druggie. "What the fuck did you take?"_

_"Uhm...It's nothing, Steve... I just-" Soda slurred, nodding out halfway into the sentence. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, body leaning back onto the couch as he was lulled into a restless sleep for what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour._

_"Oh shit, not again," Steve groaned. He approached Sodapop and kneeled down in front of him, checking to see if there were any signs of what he could've done to himself. To say that Steve was bothered when he couldn't find any was an understatement. That was until he pulled up Soda's sleeve, only to be horrified by what he saw._

_There were an infinite amount of pinpricks on his arms with all sorts of bruising on the skin around them. What looked worse were his veins, also darkly bruised but more disturbing was just how off they looked with an appearance he couldn't describe._   _Steve sat there for a while, confused where this sort of damage could come from. Then suddenly like a rainstorm, it clicked._

 _Steve felt like he had the wind knocked out of him. "Sodapop..." he mumbled, bringing his hands to his face. He was in shock, but not in too much shock_ —  _these days, his best friend was unpredictable in more ways that one._   _Soda only moaned sleepily in response, shifting his head slightly. He knew he wasn't getting out of it anytime soon, so might as well make him comfortable in the meantime. Steve left the room in search of a blanket and came back with one, laying it on his shivering best friend._

_"Don't tell..." Soda moaned, eyes still shut as he tucked the blanket closer to him. Steve looked at him meaningfully, brows furrowing in disappointment. He knew that Darry would find out whether he told him or not, but he decided it would be best to tell him anyhow. If he found out Steve let a doped up Sodapop sleep on his couch without telling him, Darry would beat him within an inch from his life._

_"I won't. Now go back to sleep, man." he lied, feeling guilty. To his hopes Sodapop did what he asked, curling in on himself before seemingly passing out again. Now, Steve would have to hope we wouldn't remember. But unfortunately, he would._

When Darry and Pony saw their brother, both of them stopped dead in their tracks before stepping into the room. They were so shaken up by what they saw that their eagerness to meet Sodapop, along with their hearts felt like they had shattered into a thousand pieces. Ponyboy expected for his emotions to simply boil over, yet within seconds he couldn't feel much of anything— only numbness inside and out. In Darry's case, what appeared to be an upheaval had finally begun taking a physical toll on him. Though he wasn't feeling too hot it was the least of his worries, for his thoughts were on Soda and him only.

Once Ponyboy saw his brother, part of him wanted to run away from what he'd witnessed. Sodapop had been dressed in a hospital gown, a thin blanket covering him midway to the chest. There were tubes and wires snaking across his chest and sticking into his arms. What he found most alarming was the ventilator pushed down his throat, helping him to breathe. Soda was as pale as a sheet and unnervingly still, the only indications of life coming from him being how his chest steadily rose and fell and the sound of the heart monitor beeping at a regular pace.

"Soda," was the only word that Ponyboy's tongue could form before he stumbled into the seat beside his brother's body, tensely gaping at him with unshed tears as he carefully took Soda's cold hand into his. Darry only followed closely behind, heart pounding in his chest before sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the bed.

Darry lifted his hand, tucking loose strands of Soda's hair off his forehead behind his ears. "Hey, little buddy. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, that I wasn't there to stop you," he paused to try and hold back his tears. "But we're here for you now. Please keep fighting. We can't lose you, Soda..."

Darry and Ponyboy spent most of their time with Soda having a silent vigil around him, looking to see for any other signs of life but none came. They spoke to him for some time, urging him to pull through and other things to distract themselves from the dire situation. It probably didn't seem like much from a spectator's point of view but for both of them, the smallest moments were the biggest. A nurse eventually came in, explaining to the two brothers that they'd have to leave for medical staff to work on their treatment for Soda.

"I'm sorry but I'm afraid y'all have to go," the nurse spoke as she fiddled around with Soda's machines. "Sodapop's vitals aren't where we want to them to be and as you might know, visits in the ICU are limited. Don't worry, he'll get better soon." The nurse added, her voice as warm as sunbeams as she looked meaningfully at Pony, smiling at the both of them before escorting them out of the room. Ponyboy found it strange that nurses could be so positive when their surroundings reeked of death. For the two brothers, stepping out of the room was almost as hard as stepping in. They were devastated that they would have to leave so soon but were much too drained to dispute.

After that Darry and Pony refused to leave the hospital, not until they had the chance to see their brother again. They claimed the corner of the waiting room in case any news of Soda came out. Ponyboy had practically fallen asleep before his bottom even hit the chair. Darry wouldn't have time for sleep and would still have some business to do. He vaguely remembered the telephone on the way to Soda's room and made his way there, stomach tied up in knots as he dialed the number as quickly as he could, hoping that by chance Steve Randle was still awake.


	4. IV

odapop _Curtis tried to quit once. But the act of quitting, ironically enough, made him less willing to bring an end to his days of being a dope fiend. He thought the thirst for some smack would somehow quench itself, but Soda was only clean for the better part of a day before it started to kick in. At first, he only thought he caught a cold— some sniffling here and there, his bones aching with each movement. By 24 hours, things started to go downhill real fast._

_Soda tried to hide it, but it seemed Darry had been granted the superpower to know everything. He was tired of keeping secrets from his brothers anyway. He was curled up on the bathroom floor, all his thoughts on the smack he stuck at the far end of the closet. He couldn't stop shaking, nor find it within himself to fall asleep._

_The few times Soda was about to fall asleep,_ pain _would shoot through his gut like a knife and the next thing he knew, he'd be expelling the contents of his stomach into the tub. He questioned if he'd ever leave the bathroom in his life again._

_Ponyboy caught him at one of his worst moments. He had just finished going through another painful bout of retching, collapsing onto the cold tile floor. Soda was so exhausted that merely keeping his head up was a challenge. Sweating buckets made it seem like it was blazing hot when in reality, it felt as if it was as cold as the northern pole._

_He was startled when he heard a few knocks at the door, though had too much of a struggle concentrating to care much for anything. Soda just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest as he dismissed the voices coming from behind the door. That was until he heard it open slowly, hazily noticing a figure towering over him._

_"Soda, are you okay?" someone asked carefully. It was on the first word that he unmistakably knew it was Ponyboy._

_"I'm fine, Pone. Go back to sleep." Soda lied, feeling guilty he got his kid brother worried about him. He thought he wasn't worthy of pity, yet that's all people gave him these days._

_"You don't look fine. Are you sick?" he asked, kneeling next to him while he took a closer look at his brother. It wasn't a pretty sight. Pony cringed when the smell of vomit hit his nostrils. "You have the flu?"_

_"I don't know," Sodapop mumbled, closing his eyes. He was hardly aware of what was going on around him, only hearing bits and pieces of some sort of conversation going on right in front of him. Someone had put the back of their cool hand onto his forehead._

_"Is he going to be alright?"_

_"I think so Pony, he probably just needs some rest..." Soda then felt hands grab him, feeling the floor beneath him suddenly vanish and then set on something comfy. Unfortunately, it didn't make him feel much better. The cramps eventually settled in his stomach once again, clutching it and whining in pain._

_If only he simply needed some rest to save him from himself . . ._

_"Shh, It's okay. It'll pass, little buddy. Try to get some sleep, okay?"_

Steve woke up with a start, the familiar sound of a telephone in the distance blaring like a bucket of cold water splashed right on him. It took a while for him to process just what he was hearing. He decided to simply wait for the phone to stop torturing his ears. But when it didn't, Steve unwillingly hopped out of bed and stumbled to where it was. But through the nuisance, his pulse began to race— no one would be so persistent as to try and call him at this time and hour— no one except the Curtis brothers. Steve felt a lump form in his throat, his stomach tied up in knots as he put the receiver against his ear.

"Hello?" he asked apprehensively, catching some mumbling at the other end of the line. He wasn't sure how to prepare himself for what he was going to hear given on how the line filled with silence for several seconds. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Suddenly, a voice came to break the silence. "Steve?" Someone spoke, voice hoarse from an obvious lack of sleep. "That you?"

Steve's face paled. Easily recognizing the voice in an instant, it seemed that the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach was aware of what had gone amiss. "Yeah it's me," he choked out. "What's wrong, Darry?"

Darry struggled to find the right words to say, letting the line go silent again. He was losing his composure quick but managed to pull through. "We're in the hospital. Come over, I'll explain it to you when you get here. Bring Two-Bit along, will you?" he muttered like a cyborg in the movies, mechanical and emotionless.

Steve knew this voice— the same one he heard at Mr. and Mrs. Curtis' funeral, speaking to a crushed Sodapop when Ponyboy ran away. Darry used it to control his emotions, make it seem like he's tougher than anything life could throw at him . . . Just like he was reckoned to be Superman. He overlooked Darry's words. He really didn't mean to— it was his overwhelming emotions that got the best of him, causing him to act on the spur of the moment. "The hospital? Is it Soda? What happened?" he blurted out, desperate for answers.

Darry took in a deep breath, mind engulfed by a sea of overwhelming inquiry. "Yeah, it's Soda. Look, I don't want to explain it right now," he said, voice rising up an octave causing Steve's heart to sink. "Please, come here with Two-Bit. Now," even through Darry's painfully clear exhaustion, Steve could hear his determination for his brothers loud and clear.

"Okay okay, I'll be there with Two," Steve responded, leaving the receiver hanging from its cord as he rushed to get some clothes on. He quickly gathered his things and raced down the stairs of the apartment complex, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he landed in the front seat of his car. Steve was out of the parking lot so quickly that it almost felt as if he was drunk. It was suddenly as if he were in a drag race, driving at godlike speeds and snubbing every traffic law known to man. This time it wasn't to get some dough— it was to get to his best friend's side as soon as possible.

For all he knew, Soda could've been dying. He wasn't going to let him die. Whether it be God or Soda himself who wanted to take him away from this world, Steve would do anything to keep him here, even if he were to lose his own life. And there was nothing that could kill Steve faster than Sodapop Curtis.

* * *

In the hospital seconds felt like minutes, the minutes felt like hours, and the hours felt like days. Ponyboy and Darry were not permitted to visit their brother, no matter how much they tried to urge medical staff despite their wearied state. Every so often, Dr. Clark would arrive to inform the two brothers about Sodapop's condition, but details were rather scarce. What they clung to was the fact that he was still pulling through, that there was still hope for him. It was difficult to believe after seeing him lying on the hospital bed, appearing lifeless.

It wasn't long after Darry's phone call when he abruptly heard the doors fly open with a loud bang, shaking Darry out of his half-asleep trance as he frantically looked around. In the distance, he saw Steve stepping into the waiting room with Two-Bit teetering close behind him. While they both look frazzled, Two-Bit looked like he would just about fall over at any given second. They came in and Steve and Darry's eyes met in an instant, both filled with unanswered questions.

"D-Darry," Steve stammered, dropping into the seat next to him. "What happened?"

"Oh Steve," Darry answered, covering his face with his hands. An outpour of the events that transpired hours prior flooded the gateways of his head. It was especially troublesome than expected to recount the memories in his mind, let alone describe them to his little brother's best friend. He tried to explain, but it seemed the words lost their way from his brain to mouth, leaving Steve and Two-Bit near hysterics.

This left Ponyboy to explain. "We tried wakin' him up but..." he trailed off, letting the two fill in the details for themselves. "They think he overdosed or something. Doc told us he might be in a coma...He might have brain damage." Pony revealed, voice trembling with each word that came out.

"Mother of Jesus," Two-Bit sighed, utterly shell-shocked. "Can't we see him, man?"

There was a spark in Darry that lead him to find the will to speak again. "We can, but only for about half an hour at a time. They haven't let us see him for a while, though. He's in critical condition,"

Steve felt guilt take a stab at his gut. He was the first one to find out about his addiction at play and did his best to help him. He told Darry what he'd discovered, but that appeared to only make things worse— what was a lively relationship between Darry and Sodapop seemed to go dark real quick. Steve could picture the nonstop arguing, drug paraphernalia, and the look of helplessness in Darry's blue eyes all over again.

He was unable to comprehend for a while before everything hit him at once. He knew from the tone of Darry's voice over the phone that things were far from okay. There was a false feeling of optimism the ride to the hospital that fueled Steve's way there. Yet as it turned out, circumstances were much worse than he thought. His stomach clenched painfully and It was a wonder how he got to the trashcan in time, sick rising up his throat and spewing beneath him. Steve heaved several times— it like his body was vainly trying to get rid of the crawling anxiety within him.

Except it didn't help when it was over. Steve leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor as unrelenting thoughts raced through his mind. Soda's path downhill was so quick it could make anyone's head spin. After all those months of trying to get him help, they all went to waste. Now, Steve's only wish for Soda was that whether he would find his way out of the woods or submit to his vice, he would be able to find peace away from the war that tore him into a million pieces.

Little did he know that Two-Bit was right by his side, falling to the floor beside Steve and putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked at him meaningfully, silenced by the uneasiness that overspread the area. He was visibly drunk, but not drunk enough to understand how awful of a position the gang was put into. All four boys were left incompetent, unable to do anything while Soda's life was put into the hands of strangers.


	5. V

_"Glory, Pone. Why are ya looking at me like that?" Sodapop scoffed, popping the cigarette back into his mouth as his kid brother gawked at him with a strange, almost upset look. Ponyboy didn't answer, continuing to working on his schoolwork. That earned him a bewildered look from Soda. "Are you mad? It is somethin' I did..."_

_Before he could finish the question, Darry gazed over him from the kitchen and gave him a nasty look. "Sodapop," he snarled, dropping the wooden spoon from his hand. "You and me, front porch," he added, heading straight out the front door. Soda followed close behind, jaw clenched tight as they made their way into the fresh autumn air._

_The older brother gave him another stare, one that was so full of venom he nearly convinced himself Darry was about to kill him right there. Still, the tone of his voice was a cutting contradiction— it was soft as the blow of a flute but disenchanted— like how mom would sound after scolding him for the trouble he caused. Those days had revived themselves into another form. Now, Soda caused trouble to everyone he loved_ —  _Darry being the one scolding him._

"You thought we wouldn't find out, didn't you?" Darry spoke up, his words the paintbrush to the picture painted in Soda's mind. His gaze fell to the floor, breaking into a cold sweat for what would come out of his big brother's mouth.  _"We were so close to losing you, Soda. It's a miracle you came back in one piece,"_

_Darry paused, dropping his voice hardly above a whisper. "We found the drugs in the closet. Ponyboy did, and he just started bawling," he shook his head at the memory. "You're topping yourself more and more each day..."_

_"Well, I didn't mean to do that," Sodapop squeaked, guilt stunning him like a knife to the gut, carrying off just about all the words from his mouth. "Look, it's nice of you guys to care and all but you ain't my guardian no more. And I'm not killing myself, I ain't stupid-"_

_"That's a lie," Darry mumbled, sighing heavily in an attempt to control his boiling anger. "It's all lies, isn't it? That's probably all you've been doing, God knows how long. As far as I'm concerned, as long as you live under this roof I am your guardian,"_

_Soda peered at him suggestively, one eyebrow cocked up and the cigarette still in his mouth. How Darry loved his brother to death, but definitely not at that moment. If there was one thing his brother was doing, it was driving him up a wall._

_"Sodapop, I'm more worried than angry. When was the last time you've been there for Pony? I don't think you know how much we need you,"_

_"You tryna get me on some guilt trip? I live my own life. I know it might be hard to believe sometimes, but I have one if ya didn't know. If you're gonna keep telling me to do shit I'd be glad to leave,"_

_"Pepsi-Cola, Steve was the one to tell me about your addiction and you know that. All he wanted to do was help you— that's what we want to do. If you insist, you're free to leave anytime you want, but-"_

_"I don't need no damn help! Save your pity for someone else, I ain't worth it. And Steve can go fuck himself, 'cause we all know he's the reason I gotta deal with you!" Sodapop cried out, pushing his older brother against the house._

_Darry used all the force within to avoid seeing red. But when they stared directly at each other, the fire blazing in the younger brother's eyes burning through his brother's soul as he was locked in place, that was the first time he saw it, even felt it— hatred, pure hatred in Sodapop. And there he saw the last remnants of Sodapop Curtis, dashed away by the waves that destroyed him._

Steve and Two-Bit weren't sure how much time they spent sitting on the less than sanitary hospital floor. Both sat as time came and went, not giving a single thought to the looks staff gave when walking by. They were so wrapped up in the thoughts of their own that their surroundings were none of their concern. That was until Darry fell into their sight, hovering over them with exhaustion virtually etched onto his face.

"Sorry," Two-Bit muttered, bringing himself to his feet. "Get some sleep, man. You were looking like you were about to doze off halfway into walkin' over here,"

"Can't," Darry mumbled, rubbing the non-existent sleep out of his bloodshot eyes. "I'm not sleeping till I see Soda again,"

"Cmon, you need to try," Two-Bit pointed out, "We'll wake ya when we hear something. Won't do ya good to pass out from exhaustion," Darry nodded slightly, the three making their way back into the waiting room. "Is Steve alright?"

"I don't know, Dar. Hasn't talked at all since he got sick," Two-Bit whispered, looking him over. Steve was as pale as a sheet, eyes fixated on the floor. "Think he's still in shock after everything. Hell, we all are," he gulped.

Once they got there, Ponyboy had fallen asleep like a light in his self-proclaimed seat. "Good to see the kid sleepin'," Two-Bit remarked, taking the chair next to him. The four sat in silence, waiting for news like Darry and Ponyboy had for hours. About halfway through the hour, the guilt lingering in the pit of his stomach came back in full force sparking the sudden urge to speak.

"Darry?"

He opened his eyes, surprised that Steve decided to speak up. "What's up, Steve?"

Steve tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know he would do this. I tried to get him to stop, I-"

"Steve, you didn't do anything. Don't apologize— we all tried, he just wouldn't budge. I can't really blame him, he's never told us what happened... Over there,"

For a moment, Steve was taken aback. He'd fought in Vietnam, separated from his best friend once they arrived at boot camp. Every time he thought about all the things he did, all the things he saw a chill would run down his spine. He remembered the first few weeks back, readjusting into civilian life. At the time, even the smallest of things would set him off into a frenzy.

He would've drunk himself to death if it weren't for Sodapop Curtis. God forbid he told anyone who hadn't gone through that war what he'd done— what he did out of self-preservation, pressures from his fellow soldiers and orders that only led to futile attempts to avoid them. Men who hadn't gone through what he did— men who couldn't live through it all over it again in a blink of an eye would never understand. And Steve would rather suffer in silence than be considered a monster.

Steve nodded, closing his eyes as a cue that he was done talking. But he knew conversations like these were far from over. He remembered nodding off a few times, not aware of how much time passed before he felt a hand touch his shoulder, hushed voices filling his ear and coming out of the other. He was instinctively awake in an instant, surveying his surroundings.

The first thing he spotted was the light shining through the windows, the gentle sound of rain and the familiar glow of early morning. For a split second, it brought him comfort, serving as a reminder that there was still hope. But that was only until he heard the sound of a strangled sob, turning to see Ponyboy in Darry's arms, clutching his shirt into a ball. There were tears running from his eyes and tears forming in Darry's as he rubbed his brother's back gently.

Two-Bit sat there, dumbfounded with his head tilted back. He noticed Steve gaping at him, and the two began helplessly staring at each other, genuine fear in Steve's eyes as his mind screamed for answers.

"Two-Bit?" Steve asked in a frantic tone. He seemed to know Steve's question before he could ask. "Soda crashed, man. His heart stopped when Darry and Pony were there. They got his heart beatin' again but...lord."

Two-Bit continued, lowering his voice. It had been a long time, years since Steve heard him sound so serious that it sent chills down his spine. "Pony broke down, he knows it's over but can't stop cryin'. They just can't get a break, can they?"

"Is Soda gonna be okay...?"

"The doc said he doesn't know."


	6. VI

It had been quiet, even peaceful spending time with their brother. It could've been in Ponyboy's mind, but Sodapop was looking a bit better than when he'd first seen him and with that came a little hint of ease. The nurses that came into the room every so often, encouraging Darry and Ponyboy to speak to him in hopes that he could hear. And so that's what they did, speaking to him gently about harmless, everyday things. It seemed to get Ponyboy's spirits up a little too, a small smile appearing on his face at the mention of an inside joke.

When Darry's ears caught on to the wail of the heart monitor, he felt as if someone delivered a stunning blow to him, knocking the wind out of him while his heart pounded out of his chest. It was the only he could hear, all other noise diminishing to a drone as nurses pulled him away from his brother. They swarmed him like bees, doing things to him that Darry could not help but look away from.

It was a lasting thirty seconds before Darry heard the call. "I've got a pulse!" a nurse yelled out, leading Darry back to earth as he was rooted in place. Only seconds earlier, he'd convinced himself that he'd watched his brother die. But it seemed like another miracle had been granted, leaving him thanking God above for what He'd done.

Darry and Ponyboy were lead out of the room in the minutes following the commotion. Pony to his big brother's surprise remained calm, face empty of emotion as they headed out. It was only once the two were seated when he reacted, shaking like a leaf on a tree before breaking down in tears. There was nothing Darry could do except offer comfort, though it probably wouldn't do much for his little brother. But he was glad when he accepted it, pulling him into his arms as he trembled beneath his embrace. His brothers had bone gone through hell but they hadn't come back, nor would they for a long time...

* * *

Steve felt terribly numb, almost like his brain had shut off watching Ponyboy's tears die down, Darry's own tears silently running down his cheeks all the meanwhile. He closed his eyes, his best friend plastered all over the walls of his mind. Pony brought a piece of himself back together, bringing an end to his tears when his vision started swimming. He vaguely noticed his brother leave his sight, coming back moments later with something in his hands.

"Drink, Pone. I don't want you getting dehydrated, " Darry said, handing his brother a dixie cup filled with water. Pony involuntarily accepted it, drinking half of it before returning it back.

"Do y'all need help or anythin'? he's looking real pale..." Two-Bit asked, eyes scanning Ponyboy with concern.

"I've got it covered," Darry answered, bringing his eyes back to his brother. He sighed in relief once he saw the color returning to Pony's cheeks. "I think he'll be okay, just needs to get some rest."

"Should I drive him back home? I've got Steve's keys," his voice dropped, grimacing. "I don't think he'll be leaving any time soon,"

Darry nodded, mouthing a 'thank you' to Two-Bit. What he wanted to see was the kid out of the hospital. He'd hardly got a wink of sleep during the night and was so tired that he couldn't keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. But he knew Ponyboy would likely object to the decision, but Darry wasn't going to let his brother's well-being decline any further.

"I don't wanna go, please," Pony groaned, opening his eyes to see Two-Bit hovering over him. He'd overheard bits and pieces of the conversation, only aware enough to understand that he wanted to take him home.

"You almost fell to the floor in a dead faint twice, Pony. Go home, get some sleep," Darry urged. "I'll call you when I hear anything,"

It turns out that Ponyboy was far too tired to protest, even after spending the better part of a half hour prompting hospital staff to visit Sodapop just hours earlier. The past twelve hours had finally hit him full force like a wave, sending all his strength down the drain. Maybe some sleep wouldn't be so bad after all. It was an odd feeling— wanting to bolt out of the hospital double doors while at the same time feeling the need to stay.

"I can also drive you home, Superman," Two-Bit proposed. "Damn, you guys should both go home," he pointed out, judging from the condition of his two friends.

"I'll stay here," Darry insisted. "I've gone through enough sleepless nights— I'll be just fine,"

"Okay," Two-Bit said, "Let's bug out, Pony. I'll bring your car back, alright Steve?"

"Steve?" he repeated, brows furrowing in concern. It had not been the first time his friend stared off into space, seemingly dead to the world. In past experiences, he was left trapped in whatever horror his mind brought back. What would happen next was ugly, to put it mildly, and terrifying at its worst.

Steve flinched, alarmed for a moment. He let his mind wander, but when he realized it was Two-Bit was speaking to him he cooled off. "Umm... Yeah, sure," he stammered. He had no interest in their conversation, nor did he realize they were having one. Before Steve knew it they were already out the door, Two-Bit likely prepared to jack up his car. And that's when he knew it was going to be a long day.

* * *

"Family of Sodapop Curtis?"

Darry sprung up from his seat, eyes meeting the nurse standing near the doors. He instantly headed off, Steve on his heels as they made their way to her. It had been an hour since he'd seen Soda— an hour after he'd seen his brother nearly die before his very own eyes. There were a million questions floating in his mind, ones that could never find a proper answer. This time, he silently begged God Himself if even a few of them could be answered.

"Is-Is he okay?" Steve stumbled out of his mouth, gazing at the nurse with a look that made him seem like a child.

"We're doing everything he can for him," the nurse spoke. "Dr. Clark wants to speak to Darrel Curtis in private,"

"Oh," Steve muttered, wordlessly making his way back to the seat he'd practically camped on during the night. He found it unfair when while he had known Sodapop for over a decade, he was treated as a stranger to hospital staff. He had not been allowed to visit him or be informed of news on his condition. It had started to drive him insane, knowing that his health was deteriorating but not being able to be by his side.

"Come with me, hun,"

Darry was lead into a more secluded area in ICU where he was greeted by the doctor. "Hello, Darrel. I've got a few questions for you," he announced, eyes fixated on a clipboard he held.

"What is it?" Darry replied gruffly, unsure of what to expect. But from the

"Judging by how Sodapop was admitted suffering from an opioid overdose, has he ever abused drugs in the past?"

Not a peep came from Darry's mouth, licking his lips as he contemplated whether it was a good idea telling the doctor about Sodapop's addiction. He feared it would do more harm than benefit to his little brother, and he was far prepared to make another bad decision. He couldn't imagine what would happen to Soda— whether the hospital would let him go or send him away to some psych ward with people he had no place being associated with. Darry knew if his brother were to live and be set free, he would only drive off to somewhere shady to get a fix. That's how Sodapop worked these days and the mere thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach.

But when he saw the bigger picture of it all— what would happen if Soda weren't to get some sort help, how his efforts of getting help himself always went down the drain he couldn't help it. All he wanted was for his brother's suffering to help. While he was physically there, his mind always seemed to be all across the world in Vietnam. And Darry was going to do all he could to get him back home.

"Yeah, he's addicted to heroin," Darry uttered, some sort of feeling he couldn't explain sinking into his stomach. "He's a vet from 'Nam," he added, assuming it could be of importance.

"I see," the doctor stated. "Have you sought the option of treatment for him?"

"No,"

"Alright, thank you," the doctor answered casually. Although from a spectator's perspective it was supposed to give Darry relief, the fact that he said little alarmed Darry the most. For all he knew, he could've been planning to send his little brother to a place that would serve as yet another hell. Even though it could've been all a product of his mind, the thought filled him with a wave of overwhelming sadness.


	7. VII

_Steve Randle never cared about the price tag or if it went down smoothly— the only purpose of booze was to get him blown out of his mind, to drown his sorrows 'till tomorrow. It had been one of those days, the twilight sky as cold and dark as his spirit. Too many days were like these— wanting more to life than to shut everyone else, but knowing all too well it was simply a lost cause to begin with._

_So when Steve popped open the bottle of whiskey he'd found in the kitchen cabinet— not that there were much in there besides the stuff— he only had one goal. And that was to drink until there was quite literally no tomorrow._

_When the first drop of liquor hit his tongue it was as if he fell into a trance— detached, floating from reality as if the very concept had shattered into as many pieces as the stars in the night sky._

_He was far from mindful as he repeatedly filled the shot glass, tilted his head back and slipped away from the life he knew, booze filling his mouth with a taste of bitterness that had taken a resemblance to the one in his very own soul._

_Steve couldn't count how many he took, but it was when the liquor began to taste like water is when he knew it would only be several more until it was over. And suddenly, fleeting as quick as a bolt of lightning he thought of his own father— the stinging of his cheek beneath his rough hand as it made contact with his son's youthful skin, the scorching of hatred in his eyes that would only end up burning a hole through the innocence of a young Steve._

_But then came understanding, a feeling that Steve never knew he could feel towards his deadbeat father. Then, it all made sense— a bit too much sense. At that moment, he was in the same position as the one he hated the most— like father like son they said. When all was said and done you'd find them pouring some liquor into a glass, everything deep within that came to haunt them drowning in the liquid that made its way down their throats._

_When Steve heard the door open with a creak, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned frantically to where it stood, only to be greeted with fuzzy objects that swam in front of his eyes. And when he saw some sort of figure moving towards him with the color of dark gold on its head, in an instant he knew who it was. It was Sodapop Curtis._

_"Soda," he slurred, watching as he kneeled in front of him. Steve can't recount the rest, but what he could remember next was his best friends voice, sounding as if his head was underwater._

_"Steve? Oh man..." he gasped, cupping his hands around Steve's face. "Cmon man, don't pass out on me,"_

_Steve's eyes flew open and he hazily took a look at Sodapop's gentle face, eyebrows furrowed tight and his brown eyes clouded over like a storm. Concern was written all over his face— yet he didn't deserve it, he thought. He was a monster, just like his father before him._

_"Y-You don't get it," Steve choked out. "I tried..."_

_"Huh? What did you try?"_

_"You know I tried failing those damn tests. And I couldn't and I..." he trailed off, tears filling his eyes. "Look where it got me. Look at me, buddy. I'm a fucking monster,"_

_Sodapop's words caught up in his throat, and suddenly he felt like he couldn't breathe. "No no, you ain't no monster. I fuckin' understand it, Stevie— I understand it all," he confessed, the strength in his voice crumbling as his tongue formed the last few words._

_"But...But...Oh my god, Soda. Oh my god," Steve moaned, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I hate this world so damn much, just let me die,"_

_"I ain't gon' let you die bud— you're worth too much," Soda croaked, catching the tears that ran down Steve's face. "If you die, we sure as hell die together," squeezing his shoulder. He barely noticed the tears that gathered, silently flowing from his own eyes._

_That's when he sat on the couch next to him, pouring the whiskey into the cup and downing it all in one gulp, wincing at the taste. "Your turn, Stevie," he quirked, shaking the glass in front of Steve's face— all of it almost comical. And that's when Steve Randle knew his best friend was more than enough to keep him living._

"Darrel, your brother is not in good condition," Dr. Clark said truthfully, "After his heart stopped, we had to rush him into emergency surgery,"

"...Will he be okay?" Darry gulped, bringing his trembling hands to his head.

"I'm sorry, but I can't promise that," he frowned, his eyes scanning the clipboard for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"Is there anything else you can do?" he demanded, looking into the doctor's eyes who stood before him. Sodapop's life depended on this very doctor, and not even he was sure he'd pull through. Darry was not accepting of the thought of his little brother dead at the hands of people who were meant to save him. And in the blink of an eye, he was at his wits end with Dr. Clark. Although it could've been all in his mind, he didn't seem so enthusiastic about saving his life.

"We've done everything we can," the doctor assured, sounding like a well-recited line. "It's all up to Sodapop if he'll wake up. We'll just have to wait and see,"

"Okay," Darry nodded, all of his rising anger dissipating as quickly as it came. "When can we see him again?"

"You'll be able to see him after the surgery is over," Dr. Clark answered. "That's all I have to say, Darrel. I'll have a nurse lead you back to the waiting room,"

When he wandered through the halls back to the waiting room staring at the dull-colored walls, he wasn't sure how to feel. It was as if all of his feelings had canceled out on themselves, leaving an emptiness in its wake. And he surely wasn't prepared in the slightest to inform an already broken Steve what he had been told.

xxx

"We're here, Pony!" Two-Bit boomed as he flunked his job at parallel parking. "Oh Lord, Steve's gonna whoop my ass if I crash this car," he muttered to himself.

"Ponyboy?" He repeated when he didn't respond, twisting his head to take a look at the passenger's seat. There he saw Pony, head leaning against the window with his eyes shut. "Cmon, wake up,"

He stirred restlessly, slowly opening his eyes. "Where are we?" he moaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Home. Go get some sleep in an actual bed, man,"

"But Soda-"

"I didn't have much of a choice, I'm afraid. Superman wanted ya to get some rest. So do I," Two-Bit explained, opening the car door. "He's still at the hospital with Steve,"

Pony instantly yanked open the car door, stumbling his way to the gate. Before he knew it, he was stepping foot into home at last. While part of him was glad, another screamed at him to run all the way back to the hospital. But the piece of him that compelled him to just sleep was clearly the winner because the next thing he did was make his way to bed, out like a light before his head hit the pillow.

While Ponyboy slept, Two-Bit took the opportunity to doze off as well. When Steve had barged into his home at two in the morning, to say he could spit nails was an understatement. He lay sprawled out on the couch, seeking to sleep off his hangover while also trying to forget how bad off his friends were at the same time— and it wasn't exactly easy.

Just when darkness was about to claim him, that's when the telephone started to ring. He groaned, pulling a pillow onto his head in an attempt to block out the noise. But then he remembered what Darry had said— that he'd call him as soon as he knew anything about Soda. And in a snap of a finger, he was on his feet making his way towards the telephone. Two-Bit's stomach dropped, a growing feeling inside that what he had to say wasn't good.

"Darry?" he spoke into the receiver, gripping the table so hard his knuckles turned white. "What's going on?"

"It ain't him," a voice answered flatly. "It's Steve, man,"

"...Where's Darry?"

"He passed out cold," Two-Bit could hear Steve shaking his head. "They took him to the E.R when he came to,"

"Huh?" Two-Bit squeaked, eyes widening. How was he supposed to tell Ponyboy this? "Is he okay?"

"The doc thinks he'll be okay, just dehydrated. Darry told me somethin' about Soda, he's in surgery or whatever," Steve's voice had taken on a dismayed quality. "Wasn't really listening, I don't know,"

"Oh, shit," Two-Bit muttered. "Should I tell Pones? He's sleepin' like a baby right now,"

"He told me not to, said he'd come over there soon," he answered. "I just think I'm gonna stay,"

"Okay," Two-Bit choked out, most of his words failing on him. "Thanks for telling me, man,"

Two-Bit didn't get an answer because the very next thing he heard was the phone on the other end being placed back into place. So there he stood, totally lost on what to do and what to say. He let out a sigh, collapsing back onto the couch. Two-Bit knew that if Sodapop didn't survive, it was going to destroy their little family.


	8. VIII

"How are you feeling?" The nurse asked Darry, switching the bag of fluid hanging on the pole. He lay on the hospital bed, IV dripping fluids into his vein while he stared at the patterns of the dull-colored wallpaper. He snapped out of his trance and turned to face her. "I'm fine," he replied coldly, though in part he was lying. "When can I get this thing out of me?"

"In just a few minutes, Darrel," the nurse smiled, a sense of sympathy in her brown eyes. "Anyway, I heard that your brother was admitted ICU and you've been here all night. He's in good hands, I promise. Go to sleep,"

"Um, okay," he slurred, involuntarily closing his eyes when he heard the curtain pulled back and the footsteps of the nurse fading from range. Darry couldn't believe that he'd landed himself in a hospital bed, especially when he needed to stay strong for a critically-ill Sodapop. When he told himself he wanted out, what he meant is to get out of the emergency room and back with him. But it had been more than once that nurses and the emergency physician himself advised him to leave, that stress was taking a toll on him. It took him a while for him to believe it.

"Darry," Steve whispered, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up, the doc's ready to discharge you out of this shithole,"

His eyes fluttered, scanning his surroundings. Darry didn't remember falling asleep, but the way his eyes struggled to stay open proved otherwise. For a moment, his mind placed himself back at home while he struggled to grasp circumstances. "What's wrong, Soda?"

"Did they dope you like a madman or somethin'? It's Steve, we're still in the hospital," he gulped, feeling like the wind got knocked out of him. Thankfully, Darry wasn't as disoriented at that point and the fog in his mind began to fade. Reality hit him like a flying crowbar to the head, yanking him back to the land of the living.

"Where is he?" Darry cursed underneath his breath, shaking his head as the memories came back while his heart sank to his stomach. "The doctor, I mean,"

"He's right over there. I'll call Two and tell them the news—and you—go home before you pass out again," he demanded flatly, eyes falling to the floor.

"Tell him to not wake Pony. I'll be there soon,"

Steve nodded, leaning his head against his knuckles. "Can't believe it, Darry. It all went to shit and not even a day has passed," and with that, he disappeared beyond the halls. Darry stared at the path that Steve went through for a while, unaware of the time that passed.

He thought, how could he have fucked up like that, thinking him out of all people was Soda? It seemed like every waking moment was some sort of waiting game and that everything was circling the drain. Now, his two brothers were in pain and it wasn't as if he could put a magical band-aid on their wounds.

Before he knew it, the doctor was hovering over him. "You're ready to go, Mr. Curtis. Make sure to get some rest, alright?"

"Okay," Darry exhaled, pulling himself from under the blanket. He practically stumbled his way to the parking lot, collapsing onto the driver's seat of the truck as the engine made its familiar vroom. At first, he couldn't will himself to leave the hospital and leave his little brother behind. So he just sat there, hand gripping the steering wheel while his breaths came heavy.

"Soda, you gotta eat something," Darry quipped, watching as his brother picked at the food on his plate. The only thing Sodapop's mind concentrated on was the craving— the burning, white-hot desire for something that destroyed him without knowing. Not that he would bother to know, because once the spike was in his vein, everything changed for the better.

"I ain't hungry, Dar. I've gotta go," he swallowed, getting himself on his feet. He was making his way to the front door when he heard Ponyboy call out for him.

_"Soda, where you going?" Pony called out, pulling the chair back and twisting his head to face him._

_"Places," Soda replied, fiddling with something in his pocket. "Damn, I have none..." he muttered underneath his breath. His mind swirled in thoughts about what he could do – whether he would take some dough out of Darry's wallet or not get what he needed like air. Yet, he couldn't he find it within himself to make that choice._

_"Uhh... Nevermind," he replied, approaching the dinner table and sitting back down, eyes focused away from his brothers gaze. But then Soda's eyes met with Darry's bitter stare, causing him to squirm like a worm in the dirt. His mind was a stuck pig—screeching at him, reminding himself that he had been waiting for it all day long._

_Darry's voice was soft, harshness hidden underneath the surface. "Sodapop," he said, eyeing his youngest brother for a split second and forcing a smile. "There's something we need to talk about,"_

_"About what?" Sodapop replied, digging his nails into his palm. He cowered back, prepared for any yelling that could ensue. That's when he blew his cover like a pile of dust. And when Soda saw the look on his brother's face—blue eyes like an ocean of frustration, outrage, even sympathy, his efforts were washed away by the tide._

_Darry's face went grim. "Don't even try to act innocent 'cause I can see right through you," he snapped, leaning in closer to Sodapop. "Steve was blubbering an awful lot about how he found you in an alleyway, passed out,"_

_"Dar," Sodapop choked out, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "You don't-"_

_"It finally makes sense why you keep wearing them long sleeves," Darry sighed, rubbing where his head suddenly started to throb. "Soda, I don't think you've realized what you've gotten yourself into,"_

_"It ain't your business," Soda spat back, leaning back in his chair. "It ain't a big deal, either. Just because you got yourself into the equation won't change a damn thing,"_

_"It ain't my business? That stuff kills you, Soda. You don't notice 'till you're already dying or dead," he paused for a moment, looking at his crushed brother and decided to turn things in a different direction. "You need help and I'm not going to let you kill yourself, not after what happened over in 'Nam,"_

_"Whatcha talkin' about? I'm not killing myself. And just 'cause I almost got killed over there doesn't change anything,"_

_"That's the point, Sodapop. We almost lost you and I just can't let that happen again. Not like they give out purple hearts to soldiers for no good reason," Darry objected, his voice taking on a strained tone._

_"Shut up," Soda growled, pulling himself up to his feet. "Shut up!" he yelled, voice bouncing off the walls of the dining room. Ponyboy had already scrambled off to his room once Darry stood up, and that's when Sodapop put his hands on his brother. He only delivered a few stunning blows before he began to wind down like an engine, collapsing onto the floor in a fit of tears._

_"Oh, Soda," was all Darry spoke before he knelt down next to his brother. He wrapped his arms around his trembling form, guilt swelling in the walls of his guts. Every time he tried to help the more it seemed to backfire on him. What killed him is that through the frustrations he'd face when his little brother was home, all he needed was him back. But most times, Sodapop was nothing more than a stranger._

"I'm sorry, Soda," he whispered to himself, sinking against the side of the window as raindrops began to fall, splashing against the glass. Something wet trickled from the frame, and Darry was horrified to realize it was coming from his eyes. But he didn't care nor could he stop the tears from falling. And there he was, crying all the fluids that he got at the hospital.


	9. IX

Darry drove off in a blur, the entrance to the E.R fading from view while the truck made its way onto the street. His hands shook, his mind in a web of unspeakable imaginations as he steered his way home. Darry's bloodshot eyes focused directly on the road but he wasn't too concentrated on driving. In truth, he wasn't too keen on getting home. Darry would space off when the truck would stop to a halt at a stoplight, looking an awful lot like a zombie before realizing the light had turned green. Not a single thing, not even the gleaming sunlight could beam some sort of energy into him. It was a miracle he'd arrived home before dozing off behind the wheel—not that there was a need for another dying brother.

When the truck had parked right in front of the home, heading in from the front door wasn't the first thing he did—it was more like he couldn't. He felt like he could no longer face his little brother following every action he'd made and what he should have done. His hands went numb once he'd thought it through—he was probably the reason Sodapop overdosed that night. Ponyboy always found a way to appreciate his presence despite his ways, which was a mere shadow of his former self. It was something Darry couldn't manage to do.

It was more than obvious that he was coming apart at the seams. He'd tried to hard to not fall apart ever since his happy-go-lucky hadn't come home the same. Soda didn't even look like the brother that had left. His hair was longer, fading to grey near the hairline—his once lively brown eyes the shade of dirt on a road.

Darry knew he could longer sit in the vehicle as the minutes trickled away. Once he'd stepped out the building, his feet were in total control. The thought of going home after the shit he'd gone through—from seeing his brother on the brink of death and humiliating himself by passing out cold—home didn't seem like such a bad idea. Yet more important was that he had another brother, overwhelmed and more vulnerable than he'd been in years. Hell, Ponyboy looked like a light breeze could make him fall over when his older brother had last seen him.

"Hey, Darry," Two-Bit broke in, straining a smile once he stepped foot into the house. "You alright?"

"Yep," Darry lied, delivering a stare that convinced Two-Bit it wasn't the right question to ask. He took in Ponyboy's apparent absence. "Pony better be sleepin'..."

"Don't worry. I reckon the kid won't be waking up anytime soon," Two-Bit answered, his face suddenly going dark—almost like how the sun sinks from the night in a sunset. "Hey, I know this might be the wrong time, but I gotta talk to you,"

"About what?" he muttered, Darry's voice an awful lot resemblant to flat cola. He stepped into the kitchen seemingly having no interest in what his friend had to say, his brain running on autopilot as he struggled to find enthusiasm in being back home.

"So I've been thinking when Soda gets out of the hospital..." he trailed off, stumbling on his thoughts like branches, trying to find the firmest one to stand on. "We gotta do something before the shit hits the fan again, you dig?"

That certainly got Darry's attention. "The doc said he doesn't even know if he'll live so don't go assuming things," he grumbled, not bothering to lay eyes on his friend.

"That ain't my point. That don't matter, what I'm tryna say you should probably get him to some rehab or somethin'. Might do him some good,"

"Yeah, you're right," Darry confessed, realizing he'd hadn't been doing much of anything for the last few minutes. "I just don't know what goes on in those places, you know. Might be more harm than good,"

"Well, I've heard of people getting out of them places sober. That may prove you it couldn't be so bad," Two-Bit pointed out, leaning his back towards the couch. "Anyway, enough talking. I'm too tired for this," and with that, he was out like a light before Darry could say anything. With that, decided to take a look in Pony's room—just to make sure he was getting some beauty rest. After scrolling through the halls, he spun the doorknob just enough so that he could peek the bed that stood in the middle of his bedroom. There he saw his brother laid in bed, enveloped by the covers. But when he took a closer look, he noticed his kid brother was peering right at him.

"What are you doing up, Pone?" Darry asked, cracking the door fully open and heading right in. "You've got school tomorrow and I don't think sleeping in class is a very good idea,"

"I slept a little, can't sleep anymore. Just... worried, I guess," Pony answered, pulling himself into a semi-seated position. "Sorry,"

Darry gave a sad smile to his little brother, taking a seat right beside him. "Don't be sorry, I get what you mean," he confessed, eyes outlining the pattern of the floor. He felt trapped in a cage—wanting to cry and scream and lose all he knew of sanity—but knowing that he had to live up to his brother's expectations. It didn't matter if Ponyboy was no longer fourteen, Darry knew he had looked up to him for the past five years. To his surprise and hopes, he'd lived up enough to his image. But there were three times his walls started to crack.

The first time was when Ponyboy rushed out the front door, only to be seen a week later with ashes smeared on his face. The second time was when the boys gathered around the 14-inch telly and the very draft number was called out. It was Sodapop's draft number. The third time was now, living to see his brother almost die in the hands of diseased needles and tar. Not having the grasp on whether if he wanted to die or not ravaged his insides and to find out would be a miracle. And it was only Sodapop who had the key to the secret.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Ponyboy asked, voice breaking through Darry's thoughts. Suddenly in his eyes, he was no younger than a teen. Pony looked up at his brother meaningfully, and you could see in his eyes that he wanted him to say yes for any, if only a little reassurance.

But Darry couldn't. "I don't know, Pony. We'll just have to wait and see," he hesitated, wrapping an arm around him. "He's still hanging on. That's what matters, is it not?"

"I should have known. He was actin' so strange when I last saw him. I knew he was on somethin' but I..." Pony trailed off, swallowing hard. "I thought he would be okay. He was always okay,"

"Don't blame yourself, it wasn't your fault he took the drugs. But I gotta ask you a question, though,"

"Hmm?"

"What was Soda like before we found him? Besides acting weird was there anything else you noticed?"

"Not really. He was in bed like usual, you know how he hadn't got up in days? Just thought he was just sleeping," he choked out, his breathing becoming more difficult as each word was formed by his tongue.

"Don't get yourself worked up. He's somewhere where he can get help now, remember? Nothing is your fault,"

"But maybe-"

"Shh. It wasn't your fault and that's final. Go back to sleep for me, okay?"

"No," Ponyboy objected, sinking his head into the pillow. "I forgot to ask how Soda was doin' when you last saw him. What did the doctor say?"

"The doctor informed me he was in surgery, said he would be for a few more hours. Wasn't allowed to see him before that," Darry sighed, carding a hand through Ponyboy's hair. "Is that enough?"

"Sure," he mumbled and closed his eyes. That was Darry's signal to leave, comforted by seeing his brother get some sleep as he closed the door to his room. But he wasn't so comforted by the thought of entering Sodapop's room again. Not that he wouldn't do it because the next thing he did was step into Soda's room without thinking, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Yet there wasn't really anything unusual—packs of white powder, spoons, needles, and pills littered the room—those things weren't something that was considered unordinary in the house. He simply thanks God above that the fuzz didn't follow his fucked up brother.

Darry eyed the bed, bedding still disheveled from last night's ordeal. He stepped in closer, searching every nook and cranny for something that he wasn't sure was supposed to be. Maybe he did it to be distracted or he really wanted to look for something, but he kept examining every area over and over again. It took him more or less thirty minutes before giving up and hurrying out the door, suddenly brought back to last night's experience.

Darry's mind was tangled like mother's yarn, his heart aching in sympathy for both of his brothers. He felt like the pathway of sanity that his brain created was cut off by the fear that he'd felt for so long that it coursed through his veins like blood. It wouldn't go away, not until he saw Sodapop's eyes open again.


	10. X

Steve wasn't sure how long he sat there, flinching every so often at the sound of sudden noise. In his state of mind, it could've been seconds, hours, or even days. His head was like a beast, scraping his ribs and eating away at the flesh—wreaking havoc on all of the five senses he knew. In the time he let him swim freely in his own mind, he was so disoriented he was hardly aware of the time that flew. The only proof of time passing was that the waiting room had started to fill up with people, causing him to snap out of whatever drug-like trance he'd slipped into. And that's when Steve noticed he had received no news of his best friend.

He finally stood up and approached the front desk, catching the eyes of the receptionist. "His name's Sodapop Curtis," he spoke up, letting his arms lean towards the desk. Steve had forgotten just how exhausted he was and it finally started to take a toll on him. But he shook it off, knowing that sleep was a lost cause at this point.

"Are you immediate family?"

"Yes," Steve lied, though he was more telling the truth than telling lies. He'd understood to not go with the two brothers when they'd first received news of Sodapop—not only out of respect but dread that he'd find out it was too late. He was far from prepared to hear it in the flesh.

The woman shuffled with some files on her desk and a few moments later her eyes let out a spark. "All I can tell you is that Sodapop's in surgery right now and won't be allowed visitors until the approval of medical staff on that floor. His doctor is not available at the moment. I'm sorry,"

Steve cursed under his breath and made a beeline for the exit. When would he find out the details about Sodapop's condition? It was a never-ending waiting game and as much as he was needing to know, reason socked him in square in the head. It was time to go and waiting for news was not going to help his best friend's declining state. He paced the parking lot, the hospital building towering over him while he looked for his car desperately, scanning the lot from one side to another. And that's when he remembered Two-Bit took his ride.

He stopped in his tracks, completely dumbfounded by the realization. Steve put a hand through his hair and tried to think through the fog in his mind just what to do. So his feet began to walk before he could react, strolling in the path that would most likely land at the Curtis brother's home. Steve concentrated on every step he took in an attempt to shut out every thought that plagued his being. That was until he felt something wet land on his cheek, causing him to look up at the sky.

The clouds blanketed the view of the sun, enclosing one another as they transformed from bright white to a deep gray. The crackling, rumbling sound of lightning like God speaking Himself struck Steve's ears. His feet took the wheel, striding to the home away from grenades he couldn't see. He wasn't sure where he was going to land—all he knew was being soaked from head to toe, the way his lungs ached with each gasp for air.

Steve questioned to himself why it had become so damn hot, why the air filling his mouth had become difficult to breathe. That's when the sidewalk beneath him transformed into the dirt like a dream, broken branches and plants scattered across the floor. He bent his head upward to see the neighborhoods of Tulsa—proof that he hadn't landed back in a jungle—only to see trees that obstructed his view, muddy rivers and very shade of green that could make him nauseous at the sight.

He just kept racing, shrubs brushing his skin as he scurried like rats in a sewer. Steve's head spun in every direction, sweat forming on his brow. He just had to run away from the grenades, away from the shouts in Vietnamese. His head couldn't wrap around how he'd arrived at the shithole, only that he had to run and get the fuck out of there somehow. Stars exploded in his vision marking the end of his adrenaline rush. His strength was not enough to resist the familiar hold of gravity, pulling him to the floor.

When his hands made contact with the ground he was surprised to feel blades of wet grass tickle the skin on palms, causing his eyes to fly open. The jungle was gone, only a patch of grass and his clothes drenched in mud. He blinked several times, seeking to make out what had just happened. But he remembered these kinds of episodes re-occurred, only the last one was so long ago he couldn't remember what date it had been.

Steve stood up carefully, wiping the mud off his hands on his jeans. His eyes wandered the surroundings, relief washing over him like the rain that poured from the sky. He was far from any place he recognized. But he carried on and walked eastward in hopes he'd find himself on the east side, as lost as the thoughts in his mind.

* * *

No matter how much Darry's body called out for sleep, there wasn't anything he could do to get his eyes to close. Instead, he watched his little brother sleep, finding satisfaction in how his chest expanded with air evenly—the memory of Soda's effort to breathe fresh in his mind. Ponyboy's gentle breaths were music to his ears, lulling him to sleep he couldn't reach.

The atmosphere in the Curtis residence was like a still river—quiet, without stirring action. Two-Bit had been asleep for some time and Darry hadn't exactly done anything Except call in for work. He figured it was time to get some food in his brother, but knew Ponyboy well enough that the idea would lead to protest. Not that he was hungry himself, it was more so he felt responsible for him in times like these.

For now, it would have to do. Getting Pony to sleep was enough—if not all he could do at that point. That was when Darry was brought back to the time after Johnny's death, a rude awakening that Ponyboy was going to fall in a slump if there wasn't someone, anyone to remind him that Sodapop wasn't gone. Still, Darry needed to tell himself that he hadn't lost his brother. Sodapop was still breathing, even if a machine had to do it all for him.

Yet more important was to come to grips that there was still hope, even if it was hidden underneath layers of doubt. Many, many layers. It was something Darry tried so hard to get a hold of, but couldn't. No matter how many times he failed, he would still keep trying.

He heard Two-Bit call out from nesr the front door, cutting into his trail of thought. "Steve?"

Darry was determined to investigate judging on how there was a hint of surprise in the tone of Two-Bit's voice. He approached the living room, revealing a soaked and shivering Steve. "What happened, man?"

Two-Bit had rushed to get a towel, draping it on Steve's shoulders. "Yeah, man. You look like a pig all covered in mud like that,"

Steve didn't respond, eyes dropping to the floor like weights. He clutched his head in what looked an awful lot like a death grip, trembling hands running through his hair. Darry led him to one of the chairs in the dining room and he sank like lead. What alarmed him was that not one complaint escaped Steve's mouth— not a single objection to how he didn't look so manly or that he didn't need help. That was not the Steve he knew.

"You there, Steve?" Darry asked, swinging his hands in front of him. Steve's eyes wandered like a newborn child's, oblivious to Darry's obvious appearance. But then his eyes set straight on his, locked on his but filled to the brim with the blues.

Two-Bit shook his head, setting his hands on his forehead. "Oh, Stevie. Now I'm startin' to feel guilty for taking your car,"

He finally spoke up, earning a sigh of relief from his friend. "It's fine... Damn, I should've known,"

"Can you tell us what happened?" Darry asked, placing a gentle hand on his still quivering form. He realized Steve's flushed cheeks and took a mental note to check if he was coming down with something.

Steve rubbed his face with the towel. "Not much to say. Started walkin' and that fucking storm ruined everything,"

Two-Bit could see in between the lines that something more sinister had gone down. He'd never thought of Steve as a good liar. "No, man. You're hiding something, I ain't no fool. Tell us,"

Steve gave a shaky sigh and slouched forward in an attempt to block out the stares his curious friends delivered. "Thought I was back in 'Nam, next thing I know I'm lying in the grass like an idiot. For God's sake, maybe I was there,"

Two-Bit and Darry gave awkward, cautious stares at one another. Thankfully, Two-Bit was there to shine a light on the darkest of moods. "Nah man, you weren't there. Don't worry about that, nuthead," Two-Bit affirmed, giving Steve's shoulder a punch.

Steve groaned, failing to keep in the chills that wracked his frame. He found it odd that while the room had felt like a summer's day just moments before he was suddenly freezing. Darry put the back of his head on his forehead, parental instincts kicking in even for an adult like Steve. "You're a little warm. Take a shower and go get some sleep,"

He took no time to protest, scampering off to the bathroom in what seemed like light speeds. Two-Bit went back to the couch and collapsed out of exhaustion— but not exactly physical exhaustion. "Damn, he just can't get a break, can he?"

Darry took a seat at the dining table and shielded his eyes with the palms of his hands, defeated by his worst current enemy—feelings. "He hasn't been this bad since he came back," then, he suddenly stood right back up. "Should I go check on him? I hope he ain't too sick, I didn't get a good look at him-"

"Hey, hey. Don't get yourself worked up. Let's consider this for a second—Steve's my responsibility, and Pony's yours. Got it?"

Darry felt some of the weight lift off from his shoulders and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he gave a genuine smile. "Thanks, Two. I'll think about that." he yawned, finally taking note of his body's reminder of tiredness. "I'm gonna get some sleep. Wake me if anything happens, alright?"

Two-Bit reflected Darry's grin back at him. "Got it,"

Darry made his way towards the bedroom, but before that he'd peek at his little brother through the door. At this moment, he was brought to light only how many times he'd done this action as an impulse in the course of six years. It was like his head couldn't comprehend the fact that Ponyboy was an adult— all that popped into his mind was his childlike face.

There wasn't anything more gratifying than the sight and feel of his bed. Not a stiff, colorless bed and a thin sheet he was given as a blanket. Better yet was the tingly, cleansing feeling of calm wash over him. Still, the storm raging inside of Darry like the one outside the walls and comfort of home was far from over.


	11. XI

There's something that slices through the cobwebs of Darry's unconsciousness and drags him back into the land of the living. Sleep calls for him, pulling him into what feels like the deepest end of oceans. But the voices from above the surface are far louder than his own demanding for sleep. Darry can't help but come back to what he knows of reality, unfolding his tired eyes. The first thing that truly comes to mind is the question of how much time he'd spent asleep, but upon seeing the look on Two-Bit's face he comes to wonder just what happened when he was out.

"Wake up, Superman," Two-Bit called out. "Ponyboy just got off the phone with the hospital. Soda just got out of surgery,"

"Is he okay?" Darry mumbled, dragging himself into a seating position and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Can we see him?"

"Yeah. Do you think you'll be okay with going back there?" Two-Bit asked, based on how Darry's lack of attention on himself had earlier caused troubles. "What I mean is, you think you're fit to go?"

"Yeah yeah," Darry answered, catching the realization that he'd been in the same pair of clothes for over twelve hours. "Give me a minute, I'll bring Pony with me,"

"Oh, alright. I'll just chill with Steve for the time being,"

"Did he get any better since I fell asleep?"

"Yes and no. Sleepin' like a baby on the couch but he's still burnin' up. Reckon we should leave him alone. You know just how he is," Two-Bit pointed out, more than glad his friend was in higher spirits than before.

"Damn right," Darry chuckled, "Play babysitter while I'm gone, will ya?"

"I'd be glad to but know that Steve is probably gonna skin me alive," he joked, heading out the door. "Get your ass out of bed, man. Superman ain't lazy,"

Darry shook his head and smiled, bringing himself to his feet. For certain, the world felt a little brighter than before. Yet he knew all too well the seriousness of the situation with Sodapop. His mouth could form the words but his mind couldn't get near the thought of it all. Just bits and pieces—the understanding that his little brother could slip through the cracks before he had the chance to see him. Darry shook off the thought, an empty hole growing in his stomach.

After a well-needed change of attire, the first thing he'd done was make it to the empty bedroom where he'd figured Steve had gone to doze. In his view was a kid—a boy that couldn't have looked more than fourteen as he stirred in his sleep. When Darry made his way closer, that's when he noticed how sick he looked. The flushed cheeks, beads of sweat on his forehead, the dark circles beneath his eyes... It was funny how he'd been fine just hours ago. Physically, at least.

Darry decided to stop being a father figure to Steve for the time being—leave it to Two-Bit and his word. In his state, Two-Bit could be a better caretaker than him. He strode to the living room, all thoughts placed on the brothers he had. The brothers that meant more than the world to him. Ponyboy sat on the couch with droopy eyes and hands on his lap. Pony straightened his posture when his brother his appearance, just like he always did. "You gonna go to the hospital?"

"Yeah, kiddo. I'll drive," Darry answered, grabbing the car keys from the chain. He didn't want his brother to go behind the wheel in the condition he was in. Ponyboy could slam the truck into a light pole for all he knew.

"No, I'll do it. I wasn't the one who passed out, you know,"

Darry's eyes narrowed, turning to look at Ponyboy with a strange feeling creeping up from inside that he had no clue how to describe. "When did you find out about that?" he asked, voice hushed and clouded over in doubt.

"Two-Bit told me," Ponyboy responded coolly, standing upright to face his older brother. Darry noticed the trace of worry in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I...I didn't think you'd know,"

"Cmon Darry, don't be like that. it happens to the best of us," Ponyboy remarked, snatching the keys out of his hands. "Meet you in the car,"

A sad smile twitched up Darry's face as his brother stepped out the front door. It was always nice to watch his brother's displays of maturity throughout the years and he always knew Ponyboy would grow into a beautiful flower—even during his younger days. It gave him confidence that he done at least one thing right.

He trailed behind his brother, taking the passenger's seat and watching as his brother took command. Pony's full attention was directed towards the road, giving a hard stare that looked as if his retinas would burn. The silence between the two inflated the space like a balloon, and if it weren't for the buzz of the engine Darry likely would've gone insane.

It was only about halfway through the ride when Ponyboy began to lose his composure. He gave quick, fleeting glances to Darry with strange looks. Darry couldn't pinpoint the reason why he kept doing it, so he took it as an initiative to talk. "You okay?"

Ponyboy made a pained expression, brows scrunched and his eyes narrow. "No, I'm not," he paused, licking his lips and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "What...What if he doesn't make it?"

His words were like something heavy dropped on Darry's chest, suffocating and knocking more than just the wind out of him. He wasn't sure if his brother was prepared to listen to the real response, rather taking the chance to try and put him at ease before anything else. "Don't think about that, Pone. He still has a chance,"

"I can't believe this is happening," Pony gulped, the tears locked in his eyes causing him to choke. "Why is this happening?" he muttered under his breath, speaking more so to himself than Darry.

He hadn't realized how worked up he'd become, the tears dripping from his cheeks, or the way he gasped for breath until Darry spoke up. "Easy, easy," he heard him say. "Pull over,"

Pony maneuvered the truck to the side of the road and let go of his death grip on the steering wheel, allowing a hitched sigh to release from his throat. "I'm sorry," he murmured, trembling hands running through his hair. "It ain't fair, Dar. He's been through so much shit already. Don't think that I didn't notice any of it," he paused, tears trickling onto the wheel. "I knew when I found the drugs, he was fucked-"

"Hey, hey," Darry said, tone almost as soft as mother's voice once was. "Nothing is your fault, you hear me? Do you want to go back home?"

"No," he choked out, wiping his wet eyes with his sleeve. "I gotta see him, even if just for a second,"

"Alright, kiddo. Just keep on drivin',"

After the ordeal, the two brothers played it off like nothing happened. But in truth, it was imprinted on every thought, every memory, every image that sprouted from their minds. Ponyboy sought to forget that they were on their way to visit Sodapop, but the stomach-turning memories of what had happened were as clear as day and as sharp as a knife. And all of it pained him more than a stab to the gut.

Pony's mind traveled far beyond the reach of reality. He hadn't got a clue how much time had passed and it was only when his hand jerked the gear stick to park is when he realized he was finally at the hospital. When he'd made it through the double doors, he took no time to wait. He left Darry behind and advanced to the front desk with impatient eyes that lying on the receptionist.

"We're h-here for Sodapop Curtis," he stammered. "We just got a call he was out of surgery,"

To the two brothers, it seemed like the seconds felt more like hours as they watched the woman search through countless files. After a moment, she looked up at them. "I'll page the doctor for Y'all. The information here says the surgery went just fine," she smiled.

"Thank you," Darry replied, and shortly the both of them were sitting in the waiting room. It was as if Darry and Ponyboy were in a cycle—come to the hospital, get caught in the waiting game, get to see Sodapop for a while, and then be driven back to where they began. If it weren't for the rules, Darry would've stepped into his little brother's room no matter what condition he was in or where he was. He would do it, no matter what he'd have to see just to see his face again.

His eyes wandered to Pony whose own eyes were still streaked in red from tears, cheek resting against his hand in a struggle to keep his head up. That's when like an avalanche, the understanding came to Darry's mind so fast it felt like he was knocked over—guilt suffocating him like snow. He'd seen everything he knew about Sodapop come to circle the drain, only because he'd shown it all.

But not once did he fret to see his kid brother—to take a real, close look. In the year Soda arrived, Pony was hidden under the shadows and left in the dust, alone to fend with whatever was on his mind. Darry could only think of the disappointment he was for the brother on Earth and the mother and father watching over. But he took his little brother's hand, earning what could only be considered a perplexed look from him. Hidden underneath was the silent promises Darry made, the ones for Ponyboy that he'd have to keep.


	12. XII

The tile floor makes a clunk with each step Darry takes. For a moment, he's so deep inside of the storm, devastated mind of his that it's the only sound his ears catch. He walked alongside Ponyboy, following behind in the same path of the very doctor that Sodapop's life relied on. He's not sure why he keeps on forgetting he's moving, but it's when he pushes his way through hall after hall that he remembers just where he's being led. Coming to a halt in the face of a familiar room, Darry isn't sure he's ready to step in. It doesn't matter—his brain's screeching like a banshee and it's the only thing that will get it to shut its trap.

"...Nurse will come at around thirty minutes to escort the two of you," derails his train of thought and before he can speak, the doctor disappears somewhere in the maze. He can't act, so he lets Pony make the move instead. He's the one who advances to Soda and sits right at his bedside. Darry can only stare at his brother lying on the bed, in shock. For a second, he can't think to believe he's alive.

Soda's whiter than the white that surrounds him. All of the machines he's hooked on makes the big brother's stomach lurch, his eyes squint—they are far from satisfying to see. The tube pushed up his throat is daunting, but Darry knows it's keeping him alive. What's sticking out and into him is doing the same, and the intermittent beep of the heart monitor is yet another reminder. A reminder of hope.

Darry seals his overwhelmed eyes shut and dips his head towards the doorframe. This was the closest thing to hell on earth—seeing one of your brothers on the verge of death, not being able to do anything but watch. He used to see red at the mere thought of Soda's behavior, the fights, everything he'd done that could've landed all three in the slammer. Now, all of it's weakened to blue. It makes him want to crumple into a sobbing mess, makes him feel like a kid all over again.

Pony takes a glimpse of his brother, beaten down by lurking demons within. The nineteen-year-old understands but can't find it within himself to say a word, and his mind couldn't seem to fix any thought looking down at Soda. He looks small, vulnerable. It doesn't look like the Sodapop he knew. It makes him feel like he's going to be sick. But he sheds the feelings off like a snake and clutches a limp hand into his.

He takes a long breath, letting the stale air expand his lungs. "Hey, Soda," Pony whispers, tightening his grip. "We're right here, okay? You better keep on fightin',"

Pony can feel Darry is getting closer, taking the seat across from him. The reigning silence was the definition of troubling. Soda can never get his mouth to shut—for better or worse. Except now, he would do anything to hear him speak. For those eyes to crack open. Anything to prove he's still there. Darry's own close and Ponyboy isn't sure if it's out of distress or lethargy. Whatever it is, he feels the same.

Darry's throat is closed tight and he can't speak. The inside of his mouth feels like sandpaper, and the idea of opening his mouth sounds painful—not only in the physical sense. It's the pinning weight from simply being there that's sucked all the words out of him. He can hardly look down at his brother because all those disturbing images come to mind. It makes him realize that if they hadn't been there sooner he wouldn't be lying in hospital bed, but a coffin.

"Dar," Ponyboy calls out, and he reluctantly meets eyes with him. "You wonder how he's gonna be like when he's awake?"

Pony's voice is water to Darry's throat. "Have no clue..." he trails off, hesitant in what to say. He's not lying, but all he knows is that he'll end up the same, debilitated, or dead. "Has doc talked about it?"

"Yeah, didn't you listen? They did tests on him, said that he's waiting to get results," Ponyboy paused, eyes falling to where Sodapop lay. "Hope it comes out okay,"

"Oh," Darry exhales, bringing his hands to his forehead. He remembers a voice but didn't bother to make out the words. He mentally curses himself, and he wants to curl up and forget the world. It was not the time to make ridiculous mistakes, especially when it came to his brother in his state.

He can't stop looking at Sodapop. It appears he's got no life inside of him, he's translucent like a ghost and it makes chills run down Darry's spine. He wants to convince himself it isn't him—that he's back home, spiking drugs into his vein. It's wrong, but he would rather see his brother doing what's killing him instead of feeling this helpless, watching as he lies there on life support.

Light beams through the windows. It's warm, welcoming. Pony looks up at the windows hovering over the three. The sky's turned blue, a sign that the storm has come to its end. The one in his mind, it's raging. It's not too bright, but it's glistening on everything. It makes the room less awful to be in—only a little.

Darry runs his hand through Sodapop's hair, pulling loose strands from his forehead. To think that only a day ago, he'd be crawling from the bedroom window to get his drugs. He lost the ability to keep him from getting to where smack flows like water long ago. For every method, Soda would find a way around it. But Darry, looking at his brother like this, watching as his brother suffered. Whatever feelings of hostility he had towards his brother, it's nothing but ashes on the ground.

He sees a figure coming in from the hall. Darry and Ponyboy twist their heads in unison, and in their view appears the doctor. Dr. Clark's got an expression on his face—the kind where you can't dig out any emotion. Neither of them can be sure what the hell it suggests. Despite such, it's got the youngest brother on the edge of his seat.

"Cognitive tests have just come back. I'm seeing some brain function, but my main concern is that his pupils are dilated," Dr. Clark states. The way his tone is grim, how his face contorts into a sour look proves that news isn't good. Knots begin to form in the pit of Darry's stomach.

Silence. A lingering, agonizing pause that seems far longer than what is. "What does that mean?" Darry asks, clasping his hands in front of him.

"It's an indication that brain damage has occurred. But I can't exactly confirm the diagnosis, neither can I determine what part of the patient's brain could have sustained damage. If he wakes up, we'll be able to find out more,"

Pony's chews on his lip and bites down hard, tasting blood. The word 'if' doesn't sound nice to his ears in any way, shape, or form. "Is there anything else we need to know?" he asks, eyes refusing to bat off Soda.

"Sodapop's surgery went okay, there were no major complications. We've done as much work to his lungs as much as we can," With that, Ponyboy lets out a breath of relief he hadn't noticed he'd been kept in.

"We'll keep on observing him, see if we can get him off the ventilator as soon as possible," Dr. Clark answered. "I understand it's a lot to take in. I can't promise there won't be any complications, but it doesn't end here,"

"Thank you," Darry answers, allowing the doctor to examine Soda. If Mr. Clark has faith in his little brother's survival, it would be foolish to not feel the same—to not feel even a glimmer of confidence. It releases his tightened muscles some, but not all the way. Darry knows that he's still trapped in the deepest parts of the woods.

It's a few minutes until the doctor excuses himself, finally allowing the brothers another moment of privacy. "Hey, little buddy," Darry spoke up, delivering his voice smooth, soft as a blanket. "You hear that? You're going to be alright," he's disappointed when there isn't an answer, but it's his only expectation. He's fixed a tight grip on Soda's hand. "We're pulling for you. Don't you dare think anything else,"

* * *

"What the fuck?" Steve slurs, stirring in his sleep and tongue twirling with whatever's stuck in his mouth. Below the deep waters of unconsciousness is a struggle. it's only when something cool is placed on his head that he's hauled to the surface. He awakes with a jolt—no one other than Two-Bit Mathews in his sight. There's an ache in his bones and a pounding against his skull. There's a thought that travels through his mind, wondering if the window's cracked open. 'Cause it can't possibly be this cold under blankets that thick.

"Woah, woah," Two-Bit says, taken aback by his friend's display. Steve can tell something's wrong with him from the uptight look on his face. "Take it easy, man. Your fever's gone up,"

Steve groans, tugging the covers closer to his trembling body. "I don't remember feeling this awful," he swallows, wincing at the feel of his throat that's like sandpaper. "How long was I out?"

"Couple of hours. The Curtises left 'bout an hour ago. Went to go see Soda,"

The remembrance that his best friend's stuck in a hospital bed isn't a pleasant wake-up call. He wishes Two-Bit had kept his mouth shut for longer so he could've spent more time without the worries on his mind. Without knowing he couldn't do a thing for a declining Soda. "Seems like I'm not as bad off as you make it,"

Two-Bit gulps, the lump in his throat keeping him from speaking the words. "Well buddy, you've got a fever of 102. Best to just sleep it off, right?"

Steve doesn't like to be considered an invalid, so his raw throat opens to object. His voice is hoarse, he's wishing for a glass of water and dying to be well again. "Nah, give me some aspirin. I'll be fine,"

"I'll give you the aspirin, but if you don't get at least an hour of sleep don't be surprised if you're skinned. Alright?"

"Fine," Steve moans, defeated. He doesn't want to deal with Two-Bit's antics or anything for that matter. If he can just shut his eyes and forget the world, that's fine by him. He watches as the redhead leaves the room, then arrives with the pill bottle he's destined to go through.

"I'm here if you need anythin'," Two-Bit quirks. And with that, he's vanished right out the door. He finally gets the alone time he wants. No, it's what he deserves for putting up with the clusterfuck called life. He's just hoping, on the verge of praying to any deity above that his best friend will make it.


	13. XIII

_Darry and Ponyboy watched as the bus rumbled its way across the street, Pony's heart thumping against his chest like a drummer playing a solo. Every fiber in his body was tense, far too excited to keep still. Turns out, keeping his cool during this very moment was better said than done. Two-Bit stood alongside the oldest and possibly most restless of the three, placing a hand on Darry's shoulder. They'd been advised by him to not go all out on Sodapop—that he'd gone through imaginable circumstances. Ironically, Darry seemed like he could just burst into a thousand fireworks at any second._

_The word 'unexpected' was an understatement to describe the news of Sodapop arriving back from Vietnam. It had been just the beginning of the healing process for the two without their brother's appearance. Anticipations had fallen to an all-time low, and the expectation that their tight-knit family would never see their brother again became nothing out of the ordinary._

_Ponyboy's memories of that moment—the day he thought would be unremarkable were as clear as day. He could memorize every detail—the sight of soldiers at their door, how he'd fallen into such a state of shock where he was left convinced it was all a product of his mind. Neither was it any different for Darry, who was yet to grip that the younger brother shipped off years ago stood only feet away._

_It wasn't long before men in camouflage were herded off the bus like cattle, scattering onto the ground below. Only a few moments later is when they took in the display of Sodapop, whose hair had grown out of his military crew cut. Without question was he the brother who'd been shipped off years ago, his charming stare still gleaming. He's still got his looks from when his eyes had laid on him—the one he gave thought to be the last._

_In retrospect, he should've followed the feeling in his gut. From the second Darry caught a glimpse of his reborn brother, Soda's disguise vanished into thin air. It dissolved and reflected, flinging everything he'd seen, done—what he'd become through brown eyes, splintering onto the eldest. What Darry hadn't known was that he'd shaken off the worst of pieces. But he knew something was out of line, not just in his gaze but the wince with each step._

_"I made it alive, Pone. It hurts sometimes but it_ don't _matter. Doesn't hurt with you here," Soda assured his little brother, the grin on his face hiding more than his broken state of mind. That would be the farthest he'd come to tell anyone about the injury. Little did Sodapop, battle-scarred beyond reason know that there were worst injuries to come—wounds that hurt more than a bullet through the skin. Those didn't come from the barrel of guns._

"It's time to go, Pony," a voice calls out for him. It's enough to cut through his path of thought, although reality doesn't greet him kindly. Sodapop's right there, appearing fast asleep but it's those wires and tubes that get to him. He wants to forget that it isn't sure if he'll wake up, but it's the doctor's uncertainty that troubles him. He wonders if waking up with amnesia would get him to feel even an inch of normalcy.

The farther the distance from his ailing brother doesn't change his knowledge that Soda's suffering far from over. It's anything but an out of sight, out of mind situation. Pony wonders if he's in pain and if he can think or hear any of his or Darry's words. If he can, he hopes it does him good. He thinks about the future, that is if Soda will find recovery or he'll turn out to be a human vegetable. If there's one thing, he hopes that his older brother doesn't remember a something called heroin—the same shit that got him in his hospital.

Darry follows the nurse, and Ponyboy follows Darry. They're walking an unfamiliar path, the two coming to a halt once they step foot outside. Both know they'll get familiar with this one quick. It's the sound of birds, cars, and footsteps that make the silence between them a little less uncomfortable. Air rushes into his throat—he's got the words ready but can't speak up. Remembering how his little brother was reduced to near hysterics the last time, he decides it's best to keep his mouth shut.

Drives like those were becoming tiring, sickening to the stomach. It was the silence that was getting to them that turned their insides into a hunk of ice. Pony found satisfaction in the sound of tires connecting with the road, an engine working its magic. Kind of a wake-up call to how quiet it could be it was without Sodapop, he thought. It only grew the urge to speak like a cancer.

"I'm scared," Ponyboy exhaled. Suddenly, he felt like a no older than twelve. There was no other circumstance that could make him talk to his brother like he did his father. "What if he doesn't wake up?"

"Me too," Darry sighed, shaking his head. There were two voices in his head battling one another. "Don't go making conclusions just yet, kiddo. It's too early to tell,"

"What the hell are we going to do?" the younger brother replied, head dropping into his hands. "We can't let him get near them drugs, that's for sure-"

"I ain't sure, but we'll do something for him. I'll put him somewhere he can get help. I promise, alright?"

"Okay," Ponyboy replied, putting his words to heart. But his mind kept on wandering, "What...what do you think happened to him over there?"

Darry's throat clenched shut like anaphylactic shock. This was not something he was comfortable talking about. "I honestly don't know, must have been hell. He doesn't talk about what happened in 'Nam, does he?"

Pony shook his head. "No, not with us. I heard him talk with Steve about an army hospital, though. Don't think I was supposed to hear,"

"I've seen his injury, but I think there's more to it than we know. I don't want to know," he confessed, memory straying to the very moment in time.

_Darry woke up with a start, muffled voices coming down from the hall. His mind was submerged in deep waters, beginning to rise to the surface of alertness. At first, he didn't think much of the racket. It was only the sound of a piercing scream, followed by a crash that drew him to his feet and rushing towards Sodapop's room out of instinct. His stomach plummeted once he'd found no sign of his brother. He sensed a presence creep up to him, turning his frame to see Ponyboy. The unmistakable panic scribbled on his face is the spotlight of the dim lighting, the look of somethin' like he's seen a ghost. His little brother shivers like he's running a fever, skin several shades lighter than he'd last seen._

_"What happened?" Darry demanded, pacing back and forth to burn out the adrenaline that pumps inside of him. "Where is he?"_

_"Bathroom," he managed to choke out of his figure that's in disarray inside and out. Pony follows his oldest brother to the bathroom, though he's far too wary to catch a peak. Soda's murmurs and squirms in sleep had shifted into full-on thrashing and cries of terror that shook him to his core. The upheaval had been too quick for a reaction of his own, and the next thing he knew his brother's eyes came to focus on him._

_Only when he thought the commotion had settled is when he'd raced into the bathroom. A few minutes later he heard a bang, a booming noise that echoed through the halls. Now, Ponyboy would have to meet the brother who'd just faced the battlefield. Darry rapped on the door, cracking it open just enough to get a glimpse. "Soda, everything okay in there?"_

_"Soda," he gasped, slinging the door open with a bang. In the middle of the mirror was a crack, glass smashed into pieces spread across the floor and into the sink. There Sodapop stood, shirtless and blood trickling down to his wrist. "Soda?" Darry repeated when Soda hadn't turned to look at him._

_"Darry?" he mumbled, a heart-wrenching fuse of dismay and regret set deep in his eyes. "I...I..."_

_"Pony, go get the first aid kit," Darry demanded, and Ponyboy was off in a split second. He approached his brother, careful of the broken glass. There were unshed tears in his eyes threatening to fall. "It's okay, Soda,"_

_"M'Sorry," he muttered, far too ashamed to look at his brother. Soda allowed his brother to help him sit on the toilet. His mind was stuck in a whirlwind and he couldn't find it in himself to bother, nor did he mind that he'd revealed something he'd tried hard to conceal._

_Darry gulped, taking in the jarring display. A large, deep wound spread across most of Soda's exposed stomach_ _—leaving_ _jagged, crooked scars on his body. He made the choice to not say anything about it, but couldn't stop staring. He couldn't dare think of how he'd gotten the wound when the mere sight caused him to swallow back bile creeping up his throat._

"The light's green, Dar," snatches him out of his trance. Darry blinks just to be sure he's there—how he's desperate for his little brother to be there, too. But he knows that he wasn't living then, hardly alive now. If his brother awakens, he pledges to make sure he's gonna have the chance to live.

"Oh," Darry uttered, feeling like a fool. If there's one thing wants to do, it's to drive 'till there are stars in the sky. Drive away until reality's far from sight, out of mind.


	14. XIV

The next several days were long—too long for anyone's liking. Time was lingering, slow enough to drive someone to the brink of insanity. As the days passed, it had become a struggle for the gang to continue on with their lives. While hospital visits were routine, feelings of hope dwindled with each visit. It had come to the point where Ponyboy wished he'd get the doctor to seal his trap shut with his reports of no improvement. Pony stayed cooped up in bed, isolated himself until Darry dragged him to school after urges led to nothing. Darry knew his kid brother was a wreck. Yet in his own state of mind, there wasn't much he could do except to get food in his mouth and keep him breathing.

Needless to say, lives weren't the same. There was an everlasting storm, a cartoon cloud over their heads. To make matters worse, Steve had gotten his hands on the bottle and lived his days stoned from that point on. Two-Bit hadn't drunk a drop—not that him staying sober for long would be a reality. It was only a call from the hospital that lightened the spirit, telling something about how Sodapop had been improving and he'd be out of the godforsaken ICU in no time.

It was more than enough for the boys to cram into the truck, to see if matters were any better—if Sodapop looked anything other than living dead. Ponyboy's expectations were low, yet the spring of hope within had its waters flowing. Anything else other than seeing his brother's eyes open could get that stream froze still. He clung to it like a box with a fragile sticker—desperate, making sure it wouldn't shatter— and it was all he could do.

Apart from Two-Bit's occasional yapping, there was a silence. Consider it more of a void, or a black hole that sucked whatever peace of mind. The only sound left was the flicking of a lighter, the smell of smoke and its fumes hanging in the air. The cigarette popped in Steve's magnified Ponyboy's craving for a weed, so much that he swears could yank it out of his mouth and start puffing it there.

For now, the lingering smoke in the air was enough. It satisfies him enough and calms his troubled nerves. Darry wouldn't let a cigarette pass his lips anymore. Not after the junk Soda let him breathe into his system. Transported his little brother to another dimension, except it wasn't t real. Pony went bonkers, saw shit that wasn't there. He figured nicotine wasn't as bad, but as long as he lived under that roof there wasn't any smoking.

Yet, he couldn't stop the middleman from shooting up or smoking 'till he sees soldiers that aren't there, running around the house and yelling at the top of his lungs in words he can't understand. 'Nam hardened him, a hard shell of stubbornness and toughness on the outside. With every mention of the drug net he's caught in, it led to nothing but fights. Blood dripping from the noise, bruises on the jaw. The kind of things that shouldn't happen between brothers—no wonder why Pony's more hooked on cancer sticks than ever.

"Don't you go smokin' in my truck. Stinks up the place," Darry barks to the back seat, rolling down the windows. "It takes forever to get the smell out," the smell of smoke makes his stomach churn. Always did, always will. But it's the way Sodapop blows it out of his lungs and does it again and again that gets to him, shoots a pang in his heart.

"C'mon, man. We're all uptight in here, let us cool down before we explode," Steve replied, throwing the butt out the window. It's ironic, he's jittery only beneath the mask of nonchalant looks. It's hard to know he feels like there's a stick or two of dynamite lodged in his insides.

Darry doesn't reply, not in any mood to deal with Steve Randle. "Yeah, Dar. It'll only be once," comes Ponyboy's voice, agitated and fast. But it doesn't make him want to open his mouth any longer. He had truly come to hate these drives back and from the hospital. All he wants to do is take Soda home—whether it be to lead, wheel, or carry him back.

He's thankful when he sees the building, the entrance, and the windows that poking through bricks. What he isn't thankful for is that he'll have to step in, behold his brother whose clinging to dear life. It never got easier, no matter how frequent it grew to be in the past week. The gang's become familiar with where they are, who to talk with and what path to walk.

Darry knows the lady at the front desk. Her names Darby, works the day shift. He's surprised to know she's recognized who he is. "Hello, Darrel," she greets like usual, smiling and oblivious to the fact that his dear brother's fate is undecided, a mystery to doctors. "I'll page Dr. Clark and tell him you're here. It's visiting hours, so you're allowed to see Sodapop," hell, she's even come to remember Soda's name. But it's no wonder it isn't difficult to forget with a name like that.

"Thank you," he smiles, strained as can be. Hardly anyone cracks a smile except staff when it comes to hospitals, and there isn't a single question why. "When will he show up?"

"From what I know, it'll take some time," Darby replies, and the conversation's over before it starts. The gang made their way to the hospital room, recognizing well the stains and cracks were on the walls, paintings and the like. Walking through the halls never failed to give one the creeps, especially to Ponyboy. It had felt like ages ago, but he stills shudders at the memory of Johnny, sickly and burned to the bone.

No one can accept the sight of Sodapop, but it's Steve who can't will himself to get in most times. He's seen buddies die, bleed out as bullets fly like birds and his best friend looks exactly like them. Yet, he steps in for him this time. It makes him want to cry, what he's been reduced to. The waterworks don't flow because he's cried himself dry—but that doesn't mean anyone saw him shed a tear.

"He looks...The same, don't you think?" Two-Bit says and his tone's withdrawn. The room's heaviness causes his mouth to zip shut, most times at least. The gang agreed in silence, nodding heads but eyes refusing to bat off Soda. He did look the same, with that sickly shade of gray and medical equipment jabbed into him.

For Darry, there's a something he could cling to—a tight clutch of whatever hope's left inside. Something he can be thankful for, and it's that he's been weaned off the ventilator. Soda's hooked to oxygen, but there's a tide of relief when Darry watches his brother breath on his own. In retrospect, he understands it could've been much worse. Soda could've fallen dead long before he and Pony could find him.

Still, it's the pictures nailed to the walls of his head that haunt him and his dreams. Maybe—and after all, his hopes to get his brother to wake are vain. There's this gut feeling—the twist in his insides, pain that hurts more than a knife thrust into his chest. It tells him he never wanted to live. Every member of the gang throbs in selfishness and overlooks the truth, mourning for a family member who isn't dead. Grieving the loss of what they've become, what they will become.

Words rise from Steve's throat like vomit, the storm in his eyes telling more than what he's going to say. "I...I just gotta get outta here," comes hoarse and before anyone gets the turn to react, he's bolted into the hallway. Pony shakes his head, but he understands—digs that it's excruciating to see your best friend die, watching as the life drains right out of them. The youngest member's got firsthand experience in all of it.

Two-Bit's head hung low and his eyebrows contorted into some expression, a look of needing something he couldn't get. Ponyboy caught a close look at him, spotting how restless he seemed in the vibe. He didn't have a clue why his friend trembled. Darry was the one in the room who could piece the clues and from what he could tell, Two-Bit's system was screaming for some booze. "You know, I'm gonna go track him to make sure he doesn't do somethin' stupid," he said,

"Make sure you don't do something stupid either, okay?" Darry suggested, Two-Bit knows it's more of a demand. "Promise me you won't start drinkin',"

"Okie-Dokey. Want to come with me, Pone?"

"Nah, I'm just fine sitting here," he lied, bones aching to charge out the room. Steve's give him inspiration, but Soda's the reason he's sitting in a seat that's like concrete. He does it for him, needs to be there for him despite the whirlwind he's dragged himself, his brothers, and his friends into. "Gonna stay 'till the doc shows up,"

After he's vanished, it's the Curtis brothers that remain. The two—perhaps the three of them are thankful. They're all family, but not everyone knows what happens behind the curtain—for better or worse. The room's no longer crowded, quiet. Darry wishes more than anything that Soda can appreciate the gang's presence. He hopes he doesn't—can't feel hurt, anything that's wrong with being on this world.

Darry places his own hand on Soda's giving light, gentle strokes. It's his intention to comfort him, make him feel safe at home no matter what condition he's in. "Let's hope that you'll be out of here in no time, right Pepsi-Cola?"

When he thinks he hasn't gotten a response, he exhales a shuddering sigh, staring clock or anything that can get his eyes off his sick brother. He doesn't want the doctor to come in, explaining how he isn't sure if his brother will make it out alive. Darry's already been told of the brain damage, the likely damage to his organs and all it does is make him want to switch places with him.

It's only when he comes to realize that Soda's fingers are deliberately intertwined with his that tell more than anything doctors have told, gives more than any professional can give. Ponyboy appears the same way he feels—shocked, but not the type he still hasn't gotten over. It's a beam of excitement, hope like the ray of sunlight that glistens from the window.


	15. XV

_"_ _Sodapop!," Darry exclaims, shouting loud enough to get himself fretting over neighbors calling the fuzz. "If you keep comin' out from the window, next thing you know there'll be handcuffs on them hands!,'_

_Soda emerged from his room, toppled into the living room and took a seat at the sofa. He's scrawny, wrinkled years beyond his youth. Darry knew when his brother was doped up and this time he doesn't need to give a second glance. His face is flushed, pupils smaller than a pin drop. "The fuzz can't get me to quit, brother. I can quit whenever I want," he slurs, eyes unable to focus on a thing. It makes nervousness creep into Darry's system, has him questioning if he's shot up a higher dose than usual._

_Darry chose to bring his tone down out of the drowning sympathy he gets looking at his brother, fighting against rage that consumed his being. "We all know that's not true, Soda," he seethes, shaking his head. "Try, you'll be going through the withdrawals in no time. It's gonna be the cycle all over again,"_

_"I'm not hurting no one, am I? Soda fired back, "Don't get why you're so mad, 'cause we both know it ain't none of your business..." he went on to mumble about something that sounded an awful lot like a speech, but it wasn't as if Darry could understand a word. The only thing that's clear is that the heat of his anger's rising, that he's trying to defend his actions with the lies he tells himself._

_He can't let his brother destroy his life without saying a word, to knock some sense into him. "That's the biggest lie you've told so far. Do you have any clue what you're doing to Pony? Steve? For heaven's sake, Two-Bit?"_

_Soda's expression went dark like the shift from day to night. He shot up from his seat, subduing his older brother into the corner. "You're tryna get me on some guilt trip, aren't ya? It's all shit you say to get me to quit,"_

_"Sodapop, look me straight in the eye-" Darry roared, unable to keep rage from boiling over. He's interrupted when his brother, unsure if it's from the drugs or the military training's achieved the strength to pin him to the wall. This is the man who slept on jungle ground, killed women and children because there's no way to escape the General's orders. His blood runs cold, but it's the brother trapped inside that's got him pleading to stop any chance he's given._

_"I'm trying, Darry," Sodapop cries out, flustered as the red that's tinged his cheeks. "You ain't the one who has to keep doing what I do. It ain't worth getting sick,"_

_Darry's digs through his mind, seeking to find some way—any way to release the steam of his fuming rage. He's got more than enough pity for his brother that it feels like it could just spill out of him. It wasn't enough, not that time. His head can't wrap around why his brother had betrayed. What he can stomach is that 'Nam was a nasty blow to the head—in which it fucked him in the brain._

_Darry's got hefty decisions to make. "Alright," he exhales, exhaling pressure that's got his chest tight. "Take your drugs, shack it up in that commune you're always in. See if it makes whatever happened over there any better,"_

_Soda's eyes widen, realizing it's all been a wake-up call." Cmon, Darry. We can make get straight, right-"_

_"Wasn't a request, Soda. If you want me to understand, the only thing that's gonna help is if you'd start cutting the bullshit,"_

_"Ain't no bullshit, fucker. Finally letting me live my life, huh? Thought you were better than that_ — _you'd rather let your brother loose than have to deal with him?" Soda hisses_ _like some feral cat, prepared to pounce at any moment._

_"Maybe if you had a lick of sense, you'd realize that all my energy's wasted trying to help you. Pack your things and go,"_

_As it came to be, Darry didn't have much of a say in the manner. All he remembers are fists, the grunts and the sickening smell of blood. But what he remembers the clearest is the bashing pain over, Sodapop's beaten face and those murderous eyes peering into his. Tries to convince himself he isn't to blame, sticks to how he wasn't the one who hit first_ _But it's no use_ _—the two are defeated in the end._

"Soda?" Ponyboy calls out, bursting at the seams with a sense of liveliness locked in his cage for so long. "Is he there, Dar?"

"I ain't got a clue. Doesn't look like it, but I think he can hear us just fine," Darry smiles, squeezing Soda's hand. "Let's wait 'till the doctor comes _—_ find out whats up,"

"Oh man, oh man," Pony chirped, uncertain if his excitement's for better or worse. He wants to pipe it down _—_ in case his anticipations are blown _—_ but there wasn't a chance. "You're doing great, Soda. Keep tryin',"

As if the universe had read their minds, Two-Bit and Steve bulldozed into the room. "I'm gonna guess somethin' good went down," Steve says and judging by the look on his face, Two-Bit's cooled him off.

"Yeah, he moved on his own right before you came," Darry says, ease in his tone but expression dropped grim. He's not always an optimist, hasn't been since his mom and dad died. "Let's hope it doesn't end here,"

A sound echoes in his mind _—_ Dr. Clark's voice, words he can't forget.  _"I understand it's a lot to take in. I can't promise there won't be any complications, but it doesn't end here,"_

Steve comes up to Sodapop, stares at him with distress like he's a corpse. He knows Sodapop's still there and kicking, that way he can tell his worries to shut up. Ponyboy realizes he hasn't spent much time with his best friend so he lets him have a chance, lets him take his seat. "Well man, hope you don't hate my guts. I'll be here when you start talkin'—I know you won't shut up after that,"

"Yup," Two-Bit adds, not much left but the drizzling of rain in his stormy eyes. "Hey, Dar, care if we talk one-on-one?"

"Sure," Darry hesitates, but it doesn't seem as if Two-Bit wants 'no' for an answer. He's whisked far into the hallway, an arm wrapped on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

His tone is hushed, not typical for a guy like Two-Bit. It's clear he doesn't want for anyone to catch on and it's gut-churning. "Got the dude to spill,"

"...Bout what?"

"Soda, what happened in...You know what I'm talkin' about," Two-Bit answers, his eyebrows twisting as if he was in physical pain. "Wasn't sure how I got him to do it _—was probably drinkin'._  I hope Pepsi doesn't skin me alive when he comes out of that coma,"

"Shit, Two-Bit. You've got me on edge," Darry sighs, patting his back. "Tell everythin' you know,"

"Don't know much, but it was a piece of shrapnel, man. Lie there for a long damn time, no one knows how he survived," Two-Bit rambles on, quick as a rabbit running away from its predator. "It's fucked, ain't it? Started with morphine, it's gone to whatever he does now..."

"Oh, God," Darry chokes out, and suddenly whatever's floating in his stomach doesn't want to stay for long. "You're telling me Stevie kept it all a secret?"

"Soda told to keep it in, that he'd open up sooner or later. You should know him well that most of what he says ain't true, Two-Bit shakes his head. "Startin' to think he says those things so that we won't feel as bad,"

"Back off before I hurl on top of you,"

"That's not gonna happen, not on my watch." Two-Bit answers in a panic. "Take deep breaths, Superman. This ain't what I meant to do,"

"I can't believe it _—_ didn't think it could be worse what I thought," Darry sighs. He can picture his little brother caught in an ambush and the shrapnel lodged in his stomach, him bleeding out through the chaos.

He sucks stale air into his lungs. 'deep breaths' he says to himself again and again. It takes him a minute to gain his composure, for the atmosphere to feel less heavy. "I'm so sorry, Dar. Didn't mean to nearly drive you to hysterics," Two-Bit mumbles.

"Hey, don't apologize. Gotta give you thanks for telling me _—_ let's go back now," He answers, the air colder and body wracked with sudden chills. His uneasy stomach churns at the thought of having to speak with Soda of all of this. He never wanted any of this. Darry can't get a grip on what he's done, what he's let slide past his mouth.

When the two arrive, the doctor's already arrived. By the looks of it, he's been waiting for a while. With each member of the gang, pulses race a thousand miles. As always, Dr. Clark's got an expression that doesn't reveal anything. He prefers using words—but when he's about to change a family, it's a different story. Plain and simple.

"Good to see you, Darrel. Your brother here asked me to wait for you. Took a while to get to this point, but I got good news,"

It's a series of waves—a tsunami of relief, like standing in the eye of the hurricane. The giddiness gives the challenge to keep his balance, insides from feeling like they could explode. "What is it?"

"Sodapop's starting to respond to outside stimulus. Isn't exactly conscious, but from what I can tell he's coming out from a deep coma, "

"So, when will he wake up?" Steve smiled, an effort that's become rare as a gem. "Not sure how it works,"

Dr. Clark's blunt, cuts straight to the chase. "It's not like in the movies, folks," he states. "At first, not everything will come back to him. The brain damage especially complicates things. The farthest I've got from him is to open his eyes during a blood test."

Darry gives a nod, the room lapses into familiar silence. He focuses on the beeping of the heart monitor, evidence that his brother can survive through thick and thin. That's until Ponyboy finds something to say. "Is there a thing we can do, make that time come quicker?"

"Familiar voices seem to help in the process. Still _,_ I've said _—_ it's all up to him," he mentions. "Anyhow. I feel the need to discuss treatment options for Sodapop _,_ beyond the kind he get's here,"

There's a stirring in Pony's stomach to those words, the same way he feels when he's eaten something gone bad. "Go on,"

"We've had a lot of veterans admitted in this condition these past years. The VA's got a treatment program around here _—_ free of cost. Now, It's not my job to order him to spend his time there, but I highly recommend it. 'Cause you don't get off opioids easy,"

"Yeah, we've seen it. When will he go through withdrawals?" Darry comes to ask, picturing his miserable brother on the bathroom floor _—_ feeling the guilt for not having noticed sooner.

"It's already begun, just we can't see it—going on inside of him, you see. In the next couple days, symptoms will start to show. I'm guessing you know what they are...?

Murmurs of approval come from the gang. They saw it with their own eyes, went out of their ways to help Soda through the misery. It was time that revealed making him a little more comfortable was all that could be done. "Can't say it's a pretty sight,'

"You bet," the doctor admits. "Well, that's all I needed to say for today. Page me if y'all feel if there's anything wrong,"

"Uh...Thanks," Steve mutters, unsure of what else to say. For once he's grateful for this doctor, isn't like the quack he had to deal with not far in the past. He's learned that not all doctors give a hang about who they're caring.

"You're welcome," he beams and before another word can be said, he's out the door. If there's one thing he wants more than booze, it's to hear his best friend's voice again. The same, reassuring sound when the rolls were reversed _—_ Steve waking up in a hospital bed, Soda's blurred face coming to focus...

He shakes the memories out of his head. It's the last thing he wants to remember, but his brain's always been a pain in the ass. Steve makes certain to shove the memories into the back of his brain, that way it takes longer for them to leap from the unknown. "What do you think, muscles? Putting him into that program?"

Darry's got a dilemma, one he's made a real effort to forget. But the more he tries, the more it seems to backfire on him. Only grew stronger, more difficult to handle. "Well, let's not start making decisions before knowing what we're dealing with, right?"

"Yeah, man. Putting him there when he's puking left and right? I ain't letting that happen," Steve comments, frantically shaking his head at the sight of Soda. "First this, then having to deal with whatever comes with gettin' clean. Cmon, man! He's been through hell already,"

"Just want to see Soda be...Soda again," Pony confessed, expression twisting into a threatening grimace. "Wanna get my hands on whoever's been selling him the stuff, too,"

"It's that commune," Two-Bit spat, disgust clouding his eyes. "Was bringing some dusty broad with flowers in her hair around. She kept telling him to come _—s_ crew her,"

"Don't even remember her name," Darry sighed, giving Soda's hand a squeeze. "She won't even make it to the front porch. Can't let her get anywhere near him,"

"Now, that's the Superman I know," Two-Bit chuckled, punching his shoulder. "Let's go back home, you boys look spent. Still gotta make up all the sleep we've lost, right?"

"Sounds good to me," Ponyboy answers first. He leans into Sodapop, "We'll be back soon, Soda. Mom and Dad and rootin' for you up there,"


	16. XVI

The boys made the choice to remain in the hospital, keep Sodapop company 'till the sky turned black. As it turned out, the extra time was too much for the youngest member of the family. "Just look who's sleeping like a log," Two-Bit chirped, pointing at the boy slouched over in his seat with drool dribbling from his mouth. "Reckon it's time to go for real this time,"

"Don't you dare wake him up. Trust me, that's the best sleep he's got in a while," Darry croaked, placing hands on his head in frustration—helplessness that seizes him. In front of his eyes, beloved brothers come apart—lying hospital beds, plagued with nightmares that get them to scream bloody murder. It's something out of his hands, beyond his grip. Hopes that the Lord's on this side, falls down to his knees praying.

Unexpected, his prayers get an answer. It's Soda's improvement and it's all that matters. Makes his lips twitch into the first, honest smile he's had in a while. When he thinks the miracles are past, another strikes out of the blue. He's stunned, rooted in place to see his brother's eyes flutter. "Soda? Can you hear me, buddy?"

Begging comes flowing out of their mouths. It's the tension that rises to the surface like hot air, but excitement bubbles within. The commotion slices through Pony's beauty rest, but sleeping's out the picture once he gets an idea. "Come on," Two-Bit urges, shaking his limp form something fierce. "Can't leave us now,"

Whimpers and moans leave Soda's mouth but nothing else. Seems like years before his eyes fly open, struggling to focus. Disappointment strikes, excitement dwindles when his eyes shut and his muscles go slack. The air's sucked clean from Darry's body but the spark inside still flickers. There's a growing anger, swatted away like a fly— his selflessness fighting for a chance. "We're right here, Soda," Darry sighs, stroking Soda's matted hair.

"Damn it," Steve growls but his anger's empty. There's not one hint of rage for Soda, anyone or a thing. What's left him pissed is the situation, how there's nothing he can do or fix—only watch his best friend suffer. Wonders how he handled the day he opened his eyes to a hospital room.

_A piercing light fills the corner of his vision, eyelids heavier than weights. The struggle comes to an end when his eyes burst open, surroundings a flash like thunder. Steve hasn't got the notion of where he's stands—if he stands. But it's the white, the beeping of heart monitors playing like a sympathy and the smell of antiseptics that's a call to reality._

_"Steve?" rushes into his ears, an unforgettable voice recognized on the spot. The haze clears from his sight and he's greeted with the face of his best friend. "Thank the Lord," Sodapop sighed, squeezing his shoulder._

_"Whuh..." Steve groans, struggling to take in his surroundings. Even worse is the struggle to remember how he got there. "What happened?"_

_"You was drinking, Stevie,", Soda rasped, words escaping his throat rough. "Was there to stop it but you passed out cold and wasn't wakin' up. So I dragged you out of that shithole in no time," cracking a smile that came sadder than a frown._

_Steve's eyes made the move before he could, roaming where he'd landed himself. Nothing extraordinary—just a hospital wing, curtained off from the rest of the patients. He felt something awful, the throbbing beneath his skull worse than a blow to the head. "Where...Where's everyone else?"_

_Sodapop blew all the air out his body, eyes fighting to remain open. "It's dead in the middle of the night. Haven't got a hook on them, yet,"_

_"Don't," Steve mumbled in a panic, best friend shooting a hurt look towards him. "Please,"_

_"Why?-" he halted, knowing more than anything that nothing needed to be said—already been told. Not a fiber of his body wanted to set Steve off, there was no need when he knew everything. "Don't do that again,"_

_"M'Sorry," Steve gasped, tears collecting in his eyes. "I didn't mean-"_

_"Hey, don't be sorry man," Soda's tone had gone up a full octave, words tumbling out his mouth. "Relax, it's over and there ain't anything we can do now,"_

_Steve blinked the tears away, ashamed of the vulnerability he's already exposed. He's a veteran, not a pussy—a way of thinking he's grown to adapt. "You look beat," he choked out._

_"Stevie, I'm not so sure about that. Should get a mirror, show you what 'beat' looks for real," Soda chuckled, determined to ease his best friend's spirts. Can't find it in himself, can't mention how broken he's become. It's ironic, but all that can be done is try and glue Steve's broken pieces. "Figure you should get some beauty rest—looks like you haven't had a blink of sleep in weeks,"_

_"You're not wrong," Steve mumbled, shutting his eyes. "Better not leave me here alone,"_

_"Steve, you should know after the shit we've been through that I ain't leaving you," Soda assured, squeezing his best friend's arm. "Get some rest,"_

Steve looks back, wishes he'd slipped into a coma that day instead of his best friend in the present. Granted he could be a real asshole, but he didn't deserve any of this. Didn't deserve to be dragged across the earth to murder in jungles, reduced to some good-for-nothing addict. It's more than pity. It's the empathy where you don't have to step into someone's shoes to understand.

The thoughts in his mind rise from his mouth. He doesn't realize he's thinking out loud, not until he snaps out of contemplation. "Should have told y'all sooner," he shrugged, eyes dropping to the tiled floor. The all-too-familiar feeling of shame shoots at him like bullets and pains him just as much. "Maybe he wouldn't be here,"

"What do you mean?" Two-Bit asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's about Soda, isn't it?"

He can't let the memories flood the gateways of his mind. It fractures his outer shell, gives away cracks in the floodgates filled to the brim with tears. "Nevermind,"

"This?" Two-Bit asks, pointing a finger to Soda's limp figure. "It ain't your fault, Steve. It's out of your hands—our hands," Two-Bit affirms. "He's fightin' in there, too tough to die this way,"

He can't help but think he's got a point. Steve's head gives a nod and he seals his eyes shut to dodge the display of his best friend _—_ a display that will haunt his dreams for the years to come. "Why can't you wake up, man? You're killing us over here,"

Steve's expecting a certain response—or rather lack of response. It's the expectations, the faith that's left stuck in a pit that eats away at him. He sinks forward, allows the noises and voices to fade away. The corner of his eyes reveal figures that crouch down and speak. But there's nothing that can make him bother to understand. There's an imaginary rope that's got him tied in place. Steve's forced to watch as memories play in his head, the very ones that bring the blood flowing through his veins to a halt.

It's only a movement that comes from the bed that shoots him to the land of the living. He leans over, watching his best friend's fight to come to life. "Soda?" he croaks, grabbing him by the hand. "You're almost there,"

An ecstasy grows in the atmosphere, multiplying and springs like a fountain as Soda's eyes open wide. Brown irises bounce from one side to another, unfocused and disoriented. Steve's stricken by shock _—_ a blow that leaves him stunned, his head spinning and heart pounding. "Are...Are you there?"

Time darts a thousand miles, shattering into pieces difficult to puzzle. A sound rings through Steve's ears, a voice hardly above a whisper. "S...S-Steve," Soda mumbles, staring back at his best friend with dull, hollow eyes.

"You're doing great, Soda," Steve smiles, unaware of the tears that dribble from his cheeks. As the strength fades from Soda's grip, this time he's not afraid to let his eyes close. "Go to sleep, man. I'll be right here when you wake up,"

* * *

Not a single member gets the chance for even a blink of sleep. Smack dab in the middle of dinner, the phone starts buzzing. An illusion of energy streams and has them shooting up from their seats, piling into the truck as fast as a nanosecond. It's the first hospital visit done with high hopes, the first chuckle that rings from inside the truck in what's seemed like a millennium.

Nestled around Soda's hospital bed, sighs of relief escape from mouths as the haze clears from his mind. There's not a peep that comes from his mouth or a movement, yet there's this gut feeling inside of Darry that knows he can hear, that he's been all this time _—_ from the wishes Soda's granted _—_ for him to pull through, keep fighting.

Soda's newfound display is immersive, exhilarating and the shining beacon of hope. There's not a jerk of the muscle or an eye off Sodapop as the doctor made his way in. "Test results are back," he declares. "Looks like I don't need to tell y'all he's been improving rapidly,"

"Not at all," Darry confirmed, gaze fastened on his brother. "He's opened his eyes and looks around the room. Steve told me he even spoke a word,"

Dr. Clark's voice is assuring, but there's a hint of uneasiness hidden within. The boys are too excited, immersed in the edge between fantasy and reality. They don't notice he's made an appearance. "That's great, but I've got some news on his brain damage,"

The distinctive voice tears through their bubble, causes the gang to twist their heads in unison. "It's frontal lobe damage. expect him to have some difficulties _—e_ specially when it comes to his memory and speech skills,"

Ponyboy stomach lurches, dinner threatening to make a comeback. The dreaded moment, a ticking time-bomb. It couldn't be any worse than he imagined. "Another thing I've noticed with patients is difficulties regulating emotions. I'm going to assume there's a chance he'll have mood swings,"

"Will he live? Like, you know..."

"I understand the news can be quite alarming. Although with the way he's been recovering, I'm hopeful that he'll lead a normal life despite the complications. What concerns me is the addiction," the doctor confesses _—_ the statement lightning fast to gather Darry's attention.

"Mhm. I'm planning on enlisting him into the treatment program. We've tried to get him to quit, but he just won't budge," Darry breathed, voice sinking below a whisper. "It's just lead to this..."

"Darrel, I need to ask you a question. Do you suspect this was an accidental overdose, or was it a cry for help? A suicide attempt?"

His heart drops to his toes as the air seemed to make an exit out of the room. "I..." Darry trailed off, swallowing hard."He'd been in a slump for some time before it happened. Didn't eat, didn't leave the room. I'm just thinkin' he wanted an escape," he admitted, tears prickling from behind his eyes.

There's a look of sorrow, a sympathy that scatters into Dr. Clark's eyes. "Alright. You're not going to like this, but I may need to have him admitted into the psychiatric unit to make sure he doesn't try again,"

Darry's lungs freeze to a hunk of ice. Can't find the words to bring his brother out of this, can't keep the anxiety from bubbling over. "Will he be okay there?"

The doctor's tone is a sharp contrast—his words flow smooth, steady and relaxed. "He'll be safe and monitored during the stay. But I'm afraid you won't be able to visit him," With those words, the road stretches a few hundred more miles.


	17. XVIII

Ponyboy drove the path to home with heavy eyelids, slipping shut every so often before the cries of a car horn shook him awake. Sleep had become a luxury with his hectic schedule of attending college, scrubbing down tables and Sodapop's frequent hospital visits—the cherry on top having to make up all the missed work camping overnight at the hospital.

He'd switched his direction from the hospital to home after realizing at some point that he'd be catching up on his sleep midway through the 30-minute route. Although months had passed since his hiring at the diner, the announcement was yet to be spoken to his older brother. Sure, the work wasn't tough like hauling roofing for hours and hours on end, but it was more than enough to catch an aching in the bones.

Pony could tell something was off when he'd stepped foot into the home—Darry's burly figure nowhere in sight and no smells of dinner cooking in the air. On the fridge lay a note, explaining how he'd went to visit Soda and that he'd be home just before dinner. But hours had passed since the typical six-o-clock dinnertime and his older brother was nowhere to be seen.

"Anyone home?" he yelled, voice echoing across the halls. "Hello?"

The response was silence. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, sweat settling in the pores of his hands. Without puzzle pieces to solve, he came to assume something had gone wrong with Soda—perhaps worse than expected if Darry hadn't bothered to call.

Pony's feet were fired up to storm back into the car, though his sluggish brain won the fight. He'd struggled through a day of being on the move without a break in-between. The next one was right around the corner and ready to slap his face, so he'd figured he should get some beauty rest—rather try with the anxiety that ravaged his mind. He collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion, creeping his way into unconsciousness. Before he could reach it, the sudden onslaught of light cut through the trail. "Pone?"

He shot up from his bed, investigating who'd come to greet him in the living room that went bright. Too bright. In his bleary sight, he caught a glimpse of a redhead with the familiar DX jacket. Caught a few sniffs of gasoline and sweat. If it smelled like Soda, it must be him. "Soda...?" He slurred, unable to gather his surroundings.

"Shit, dude. You alright?" Two-Bit's voice buzzed in his ears like a bee. Ponyboy groaned as he shook him something fierce, jolted out of his trance. "Cmon, I need you to think straight before saying anythin' else,"

Ponyboy rubbed his eyes, peering up at him with eyes that went darker than the night sky. "I..."

Two-Bit took the empty seat next to him, wrapping a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. "Don't worry about it—you've been through enough, that's for sure," he reassured, lips sinking into a frown. "Got news for you about the middleman,"

"Is he okay? Did somethin' happen while I was gone? What-"

"Woah, woah," Two-Bit stammered, watching as his friend drove himself to hysterics—like a balloon that kept on getting bigger and about to pop. "Hold on, kiddo. Give me one question at a time,"

"What happened to Soda?" Pony gasped in-between breaths. That's when Two-Bit cracked an expression—the kind where you want to lock up the truth—that made his pulse run faster, chills to run down his spine.

"He's ain't dead, Pony," he shook his head, coming to a pause once he'd caught a look of his uniform, his eyebrows furrowing. "Soda's just...He ain't doin' too good. Started hurlin', having the sweats, seeing things that aren't there..." he trailed off, biting his lip until it bled. "Think we all knew it would happen. But it sucks to see him that sick, you know? Superman is takin' it pretty rough,"

Pony brought himself to his feet, taking the keys out of his pocket. "Can we see him?"

"Yeah, Steve and Darry are still with him. He ain't lucid from the meds, but it's what'll make him feel better. needed a break from that place so I came here,"

"Take me on a ride, will you?" Pony asked, and judging by the tone of his voice he was more or less begging. "I can't drive. Tried and almost plowed into the guardrail,"

"No problem—but there's a problem with what you're wearing. Guess you either think it's Halloween or you've been hiding a job from Darry, hmm?"

Pony's eyes fell to the floor, words lost in translation before they could empty his throat—frozen in place by the redhead who looked more like a bounty hunter through his eyes. "Darry spent a lot of money paying for tuition, so I...I wanted to do somethin' in return,"

"I dig, but you gotta understand he didn't want you working for a good damn reason. It's only a matter of time before he starts grayin'" Two-Bit sighed, the gaze of understanding laced in his eyes. "Tell you what—I'm gonna let you slide, but I reckon you wouldn't be surprised if he beats you with a two by four. Now, Let's get movin',"

Ponyboy allowed a wobbly sigh to pass his lips, struggling to contain the invasion of emotions, feelings of joy and melancholy brawling it out in his head. "Thanks, Two-Bit. I owe you a drink,"

Two-Bit pulled him into a hug, patting his back a little too hard and squeezing him something tight. "Hey, why you cryin'?" he remarked all of a sudden, backing away from the Ponyboy who hadn't realized that the unshed tears escaped his eyes.

"Oh, sorry about that," Ponyboy cursed below his breath, cowering away from Two-Bit. "Didn't mean to cry on them clothes,"

"Don't worry about it. Just spill," Two-Bit cracked a smile, "You've been real tough, pulling through all of this. Would say you've been better than Darry these days,"

"I just want Soda back home, playin' poker and stuffing cake in his mouth. The real Sodapop..."

"We'll fix him, Pone. You've always got a wild imagination, gets the best of you sometimes,"

* * *

The sound of moans and muffled noises run through Darry's ears, snapping him awake from profound sleep like a bucket of ice water. A shaft of light comes to view, an attack on his eyes that yank him from the darkness he'd been relishing. Though there's nothing that can bring an end to sleep's calling, lowering his heavy eyelids. Darry's on the brink of going under—a mere few inches away before the unmistakable noise of retching parted the rope. His eyes blast open like missiles, dragging across his surroundings to find his little brother. "Soda?"

He doesn't get an answer, not if you count Steve Randle's hushes of "easy, easy," that come again and again. Darry didn't need to open his eyes to know what had gone down. He allowing his very sick brother to come into sight, sweating and trembling and flat-out delirious. "Think it's time for those nausea meds again," he hears a voice croak, followed by the rustling of chairs.

"You got sick, Soda?" he croaked, voice mechanical and flat. His loss for words has lasted much longer than a moment. He carefully removed the pillows from beneath his head. "Looks like all that sweat went through the pillows, again,"

Soda begins mumbling, forming incoherent words with his mouth that spill like a river. "Spiderscrawlin'alloverme," he garbles out in a long drawl and tosses and turns, swatting away the imaginary bugs. Darry helps him slap the spiders away from the skin, keeps on playing along with Soda's imaginations since it seems to bring his little brother some ease. When the nurse arrives and injects his IV with more meds, Soda doesn't resist.

"Wonder if he snuck in some LSD when y'all came here. Soda's actin' just like he's on that shit. A bad trip, anyway," Steve sighs, running hands through his hair. "Let's hope that the doc comes here soon, gives him more of that metha-whatever. Provides him with some sort of escape,"

Steve went on, shuddering at his own memories of withdrawal symptoms and cravings. Placed in the same hospital, going through cycles of sweating and the shakes, hallucinating so often he didn't know the difference between reality and illusion. "Curing withdrawal with drugs...Don't know how in hell that's supposed to work,"

"Worked with you," Darry pointed out. "Soda might be a different story. One of the docs said his body's going through a lot 'cause he quit cold turkey,"

"Damn, how many different doctors came in here?" Steve asked, genuine awe in his tone. Didn't know his best friend had gone through more than one doctor—reminded him how the whole situation's out of his hands.

"Three or four. Don't remember their names. Since he's out of the coma—for the most part, anyway—Soda ain't in critical condition or anything. Just needs to be monitored so that the withdrawal doesn't kill 'em," Darry swallowed hard. "We're all just waiting until he's admitted into that unit for the crazies,"

Pairs of footsteps make a clink through the quiet, midnight halls. They both think it's a doctor until no one other than Ponyboy Curtis appeared standing in the doorway. "Guess who I bought here for the night," Two-Bit emerges from behind him. "The kid wanted me to drop him off here,"

When Pony set eyes on his brother, his stomach plummeted. Soda?" he rasped, rushing to his side. "How sick is he?"

"Been having fevers on-and-off," Darry answered, slumping his head forward in-between his elbows. He tugged the sheets closer to Soda's body, ignoring his weak protests. "Can't keep anythin' down,"

Darry met Ponyboy's eyes with an awkward stare exchanged back and forth. "Sorry kiddo, I've been here since the morning watching him. Forgot to shoot you a call,"

"It's alright. Should've left early so you wouldn't have to spend your day with him—taking turns like we used to,"

"It's fine, Pone—really—it's my only day off. I'll go to work tomorrow," Darry dropped his tone, leaning further into his kid brother. "Don't want you worryin' about the bills like you do,"

"If you insist..." he trailed off, straying his eyes from his oldest brother and to another. "Can't we just take him home?"

Darry shook his head and his face fell. "No, wished we could but he's been planned to go to the psychiatric unit. He'll spend a few weeks there,"

Pony's eyes widened, stretching like bird's wings. His older brother knew the exact words he would let out his mouth, knew just the words to prove him otherwise. "Darry-"

He interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. Darry set a meaningful gaze on his kid brother. "We don't have a choice, and we won't get to see him. I don't like it any more than you," Darry croaked, resting his cheek on the railing of the bed. "Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow,"

"I'll take the two of you home," Steve spoke up. "Or maybe Two-Bit can get the job done, 'cause I don't want to leave him,"

"Sure do," Two-Bit let go a strained smile. "But let the Pones spend some time with Soda, will you?"

Darry nodded, squeezing Ponyboy's arm. "I'm so damn proud of you, Pony. Look at how mature you've grown," he beamed. "No doubt that mom and dad are proud of you upstairs,"

"They're proud of you too, Dar,"

* * *

Pony had remained perched on the edge of the bed for a bit too much, too much that his rear end started to grow sore. But there wasn't a thing that could keep him away from his brother, especially when he lay there sick and helpless—warring against the occasional hallucinations. Soda's fever had climbed only fifteen minutes since Pony had arrived. He took the opportunity to ask for cool cloths, spending most of his time with Steve placing them on his body to control his temperature.

"Too cold," Soda slurred, raising a weak hand that tried to remove the cloths. Steve pinned his hands against the bedding, causing him to crinkle his nose in frustration. "Hot, not cold,"

"We're doing it for your good," Steve reminded him, placing another one on his neck. "You're burnin' up hotter than hell,"

He unclasped his eyelids, revealing eyes glossed over with fever that came to adjust on Ponyboy. He reached his hand out for Pony. "Pone? Pony?"

"I'm right here, Soda," Ponyboy assured, intertwining Soda's fingers with his hand and squeezing tight. His older brother didn't have the strength to squeeze back. "We're all here. Darry, Steve, and Two-Bit. We ain't going anywhere else anytime soon,"

"Guess we ain't," Darry chuckled, Soda's faint smile meaning a million times more than getting a good night's sleep or getting dough. He grinned back, bursting at the seams of what could be Sodapop's true awakening.


	18. XVII

n the following couple of days, time dragged—flowed slower than molasses. With the movement of time came surprises, emerging from what seemed like the deepest of waters only a week earlier—every surprise more of a stun than the former. Soda's improvement beamed like the sun—warm, nothing short of a wonder in the winter season. Fate revealed he'd live, spring back into the land of the living. What wasn't obvious, clouded by mystery was the change, the struggles that could send him back to first base.

Darry dedicated his only day off work to spend time with Sodapop. When the bills began piling the dinner table, the oldest brother was left with no choice but to work his life away. The first bump in the road was revealed to Darry one morning, watching over in vigil as his little brother squirmed in fitful sleep. It had only been moments earlier when Soda was weaned off the sedatives that kept him out cold.

As he opened his eyes, an awakening opened for Sodapop and discussion. The first conversation since the two had brawled it out over a week ago. After that, Soda had fallen into the pit of depression and kept cooped up in bed, talking to Pony at the bare minimum. Only Ponyboy without exception.

He was still disoriented, holed in between the gap of consciousness and consciousness to ask many questions—where he was, what had happened. There was a twinge of hope in his older brother that told him he'd forgotten about what he'd done, the drugs that almost took his life. But hope battled with the hopelessness, the desperation that he'd remembered the fight— the unmistakable catalyst of the downfall.

"Darry?" Soda rasped, voice dragging from his throat hoarse. There was a ton of lead on his eyes, a challenge as difficult as heavyweight lifting to keep them open. His senses were an assault, biting-cold air causing him to shiver. He couldn't remember much since the very first moment he'd rose from deep waters, memories shattered into puzzle pieces forced to piece together.

The one thing that always came to mind was the growing feeling of sickness, the nuisance he'd fall asleep before thinking of that—or anything fully through. "Hey, Pepsi-Cola," Darry grinned, using Soda's rare nickname. "The nurse just took you off them drugs for a while,"

"Darry," Soda repeated, this time words growing more firm. But the path to finding the words was suddenly cut off. "Wh...Where..."

Soda groaned, nose crinkling into an expression that screeched frustration. "W-Where am I?" he choked out, the simple act of speaking growing the familiar him further into the pit of unconsciousness.

"You're in the hospital. I told you, don't you remember asking?" Darry frowned, clasping Soda's hand into his. "You've been here for two weeks,"

"...Pone?" Soda mumbled, sinking further into his pillow. His hazy eyes wandered his surroundings. "Hello?"

"He's not here, little buddy. He's at college. Steve and Two-Bit are workin', he answered, weaving his fingers around his brother's cold hand. "I'll make sure he gets here when he can,"

"Oh," Soda mumbled, curling in on himself. He turned away from his older brother, uninterested but more so scared of what conversation would yield. He tried thinking back to whatever memory that could come to mind before he'd found himself in the hospital, digging through cobwebs but finding none. The memories were washed up by the tide, swept away and nowhere to be found. He held no desire to know. It wasn't long before Soda would feel the pains of underestimating the blessing of forgetting.

A silence made its appearance as the leading role in the play, looming and lingering. Helplessness was a bullet to Darry's insides—one impossible to dig out, one that killed him relentless. He'd failed his job of providing his brother with comfort—understanding—defeated into placing a hand on Soda's back. "I'm sorry," he whispered, an empty hole growing in his heart.

Understanding. If he'd had a bit or two, perhaps he could've put an end to his brother's despair—keep his brother from taking a hit too hard, rushed to the hospital in critical condition. The turmoil of emotions couldn't subdue his wondering of why he'd done. It was like reading with your eyes shut—impossible. Hell, Soda could be anything but an open book.

Darry clings to the memories before the draft, wants to believe he was as sweet as we back then—the lies he told himself that was the last resort. War left him bitter, biting-cold. Anxiety-ridden with a frozen heart. He's dismayed to think he'd thought the man that stepped foot in the home was his little brother.

When he starts to feel a trembling from underneath his touch, Darry doesn't need to take a look in the face to get the idea. "Cmon Soda, you're going to make  _me_  cry," the words slipped from his mouth, shaky from holding the tears back.

"Where's Steve?" Sodapop mumbled, still struggling to gather his surroundings. Where..."

Darry couldn't keep his head from shaking, but it's not that he's frustrated in Soda. It's what he's done to his brother, the one who can't keep up the disguise that shows him false assurance—the thing that keeps him baffled, alarmed even. He isn't sure what hurts him more—Soda's desires for anyone but him or the way he's drowning in tears. "I told you, little buddy. He's at work,"

"Shh," Darry soothed, bringing his hand to Soda's jawbone and shifting his little brother's head in his direction. The threat of waterworks came back full force when he peered into those blood-shot eyes, packed with hurt and what he feared the most—anger. "Deep breaths, ain't no one gonna hurt you,"

Soda squeezed his broken eyes shut, sinking deeper below the sheets. "A-Ain't worth shit," he sobbed, tears soaking the bedding. "Ain't worth shit," he repeated, nearly yelling.

"What ain't worth shit?"

"Me,"

Darry cooked up a handful of decisions, first being that his brother could feel nothing when he was asleep. "Oh Soda, you're very much worth it. You know what? Can you go to sleep for me?" he coaxed. "Steve'll be right here when you wake up,"

Soda had grown wearier with time, kept on fighting 'till he surrendered to the sweet escape of unconsciousness. "No..." he slurred, darkness caving in on his sight. Darry didn't have a chance to answer before he'd lapsed into an unnatural sleep. Darry sighed deep from within his chest, freeing the stress that attacked his body like a wasting disease.

He'd spent enough time focusing on himself. Although reluctant, Darry stepped foot out of the room—one part that he couldn't bear to see his little brother and the other out of what he felt like a necessity. He wandered into the hallway, searching for the payphone he needed. He dialed the number with his trembling hands, tapped his feet impatient until he heard a voice ring from the other side of the line. "Welcome to the DX, how may I help you?"

"Steve," he'd greeted with a stern, almost threatening tone. "No time for debate. I need you here at the hospital. Soda wants you,"

Steve was prompt to answer, heels prepared to make their move out the gas station. "Alright, alright. I'll see if boss will let me off the hook for today," he paused, "Actually, I don't give a shit about what that asshole says,"

"Thanks. He...He really needs you, man," Darry choked out, tears forming in his eyes. He brushed off a drop that made it's way down his cheek, unable to wipe the words of his last conversation out of his mind.

"I'm just doing what I can for my best buddy," Steve shrugged. "I'll be there in ten," he added, signing off with a click from the other end of the line.

* * *

Steve wasn't playing when he said he'd be there at ten. Upon hearing Darry's voice on the phone, his heart couldn't help but drop to his toes. No chance to tell his boss, rushing to his car with feet that took command before his head. Steve stepped on the gas pedal hard, speeding out the parking lot and into the street—no regard for traffic laws mind. At the speed he was going, he could've won first prize at a drag race—even made Dally proud.

As he walked his way towards the room, in the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of a figure leaning against the wall beside the telephone booth. He stopped to a halt for a split second, wondered if it could've been Darry. Steve went on, too anxious to think straight. That wasn't before he caught Darrel Curtis in full sight, facing him. "Oh man, what happened?"

Darry's appearance was alarming, to say the very least. Steve had a fleeting thought, back from when he'd first arrived at the hospital. Superman looked nowhere close to himself that day—slouched over, paled and suited with a helpless gaze. "Don't think he wants to talk to me. Told me he ain't worth it..." he trailed off, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "Soda... he broke down, Steve. Don't got a single clue for what to do,"

Words arose but suddenly came caught in his throat. "He okay?" he spoke with the tone of a child, causing him to feel all the more pathetic.

"Don't think Soda's okay—he's sweatin' buckets, reckon he's going through those withdrawal symptoms. Makes him feel lousy enough, but as for the rest..I'll let you figure out,"

Steve didn't give time to answer, hurrying off to the room and barging in to make it out for himself. "Soda?" he whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. There he saw his best friend, fast asleep and face streaked with the trace of tears. "I wish this was some sick joke,"

Steve's best friend looked peaceful, even with a sickly pale that made him translucent. But he knew behind those eyes was a raging storm, nightmares waiting to pounce like a cat in the dark. He hopes his withdrawal wouldn't come out of the blue, despite how he's realized hoping doesn't do jack. For now, Soda would remain in what could be a wonderland of nothingness—the closest release from reality besides death.

Steve knew the world doesn't care for wishes or hopes, and the peace didn't last for long. Only after the better part of a half-hour passed is when Soda started squirming beneath the covers, moaning nonsense. Darry had found the strength to come back in, sitting next to the brother who kept on looking more and more sick with time. "Should we wake him up...?" Steve answered, bringing his hands to pin down his best friend.

"No, he'll wake up on his own. Wakin' him up like that makes him a lot more violent, I've seen it,"

Very suddenly, Sodapop's eyes had flown wide open. His face had twisted into a pained expression. "What's wrong, Soda?" Darry asked in a panic, the all-too-familiar feeling of worry growing in his gut that chased his heart until it started pounding.

"Don't..." Soda paused, swallowing hard. "Don't feel good,"

Steve didn't need to give another glance to recognize the inevitable. His skin tinted green, the convulsive swallowing. "Okay," he replied, voice marked with a lousy attempt to overshadow his concern. "Sit tight, I'll get the nurse,"

He was glad it didn't take much longer than a few minutes, just long enough before he gave in to nausea. Darry was the one in command, pulling him into a seated position before his little brother's stomach began convulsing in and out, heaving whatever they'd fed him through his feeding tube into the basin below. Darry's heart squeezed in his chest, reminded of the time his little brother went through withdrawals—sick to the point that he'd been moments close to taking him to the hospital.'

Darry's brotherly instincts kicked in, drawing his hand to Soda's forehead. His stomach gave a heave when he'd made touch with the radiating heat. "He's burnin' up," he told the nurse. "It's withdrawal,"

The nurse stuck a thermometer in his mouth, frowning at the display once his temperate was taken. She adjusted the speed on one of Soda's IV's and answered, "101.2," before writing on her chart. "I'll go right ahead and page the doctor,"

"Thank you," Darry answered curtly, taking no time to turn his full attention to his brother. "Looks like you're burning with fever,"

Soda's eyes fluttered, bouncing around the crowded hospital room. "...What?" he mumbled, failing to bring his paper-thin sheets closer to his now shaking frame.

Darry tugged the covers up to Soda's neck, stroking Soda's hair in the ways of his dad when his sons were sick. "You're sick, little buddy. It'll take you a while to get better,"


	19. XIX

_Steve unfolds his eyelids, expecting nothing but the same old, same old. Antiseptic floors, the rhythmic tune of cardiac monitors playing together in a symphony, gurney beds—the set of parts that piece together the most recent of memories. But he's awakened to something new, an atmosphere he can feel, even touch before his eyes flutter. There's a peaceful banter that strikes the ears, a rustling of chairs and a touch of life that doesn't suit the typical hospital mood._

_It's novelty, peaceful but a tad unnerving that tosses away all kinds of physical awfulness he's felt for days Or rather—it ain't there. He gets a glimpse of the needle pierced into his vein, dripping God knows what into his system—just another substance to battle substance abuse. That's the doctor's official diagnosis after he'd run his mouth, spilled a little too much. That time, integrity hadn't been on his side._

_Plastered about is still that eye-piercing shade of white, the strange breezes of chilled air that reminds him this place is like its patients—grey and lifeless. But the sounds reminiscent of home, being with best buddies might just prove him otherwise. In the corner of the room comes a nurse, a grin on her face but a shadow in her eyes. She fiddles around with his bracelet and eyes the text. "Steve, you've been moved to the detox unit for the rest of your stay," she says, pulling supplies from cabinets and eager to stick some more needles in him. "You'll be monitored closely, but there'll be access to move around_ _—watch TV, meet some of the others," the middle-aged nurse rambles on like it's a well-rehearsed line._

_Steve investigates his surroundings, tries to look for a guy who looks as pissed as he feels. Catches a glimpse of the wide range of people in the unit, from people who look better off without a hospital to individuals who can't seem to keep their head up. That's when his veins froze to ice. "I didn't ask for this. Let me go,""_

_The words that escape the woman's mouth come as soothing, gentle as the sound of a flowing river. If he hadn't been seeing red, it could've lulled him to sleep in just a minute or two. "Not so fast. You'll stay here 'till the alcohol leaves your system," she informs, wrapping a cuff around his arm and squeezing the bulb. "Trust me, you're better off here than anywhere else. Withdrawal isn't fun, hon,"_

Words leak from his mouth at the memory. Like an overflowing sink, it arrives spilling into the surrounding silence of the hospital room. "I wonder why he ain't in the detox unit," Steve discloses, far out of the blue.. "...I was there,"

Darry pries his eyes off his little brother _—_ only to snatch a glimpse of his friend. He's quick to resume his vigil over Sodapop, checking to see if his eyes open. 'Cause when he isn't out, he's either elbow-deep in hallucinations or trying to purge his empty stomach. "Didn't ask. If the doctor thinks he should be okay here, best to just trust him,"

"Damn, maybe he is that sick. I read a little something and it said that heroin withdrawal is at it's worse after a couple of days," Steve swatches his best friend's sweat-stained pillow with the clean ones the doctor brought in, careful to keep him from jolting from his sleep.

Sodapop grew to be more lucid in the past hours, speaking in the moments where his fevers hadn't skyrocketed. Withdrawals came and went, with each acting episode bringing a new symptom to the bunch. One of the many doctors expressed his concerns over the painkillers, bringing a halt to his usual dosage and leaving his miseries to fade away with time.

Psychological evaluations were pushed away in turn by monitoring his unstable vitals. The gang organized a plan to keep him company, took turns while the others worked too hard. Darry worked to the bone, came home dressed with more filth on his clothes than he'd ever had to wash. Without a hospital bill in the mail, the thought of whatever number came after the dollar sign was enough to induce a heart attack.

Soda called out for everyone he'd known under the sun, conversing with his parents as if they sat alongside his brothers. No one needed to open their mouth to know they all felt the presences, that there were more than five people in the cramped hospital room. The mentioning of mom and dad didn't get easier to handle, but the gang was all concerned to find he would call a girl out from time to time. Bonnie was her name, but none of them could be sure if she was a living, breathing human or some product of hallucination.

Darry can't pop the bubble of his stress that doesn't float away. He's run out of ideas _,_  now that wringing his hands or running them through his hair doesn't make the cut. "I don't think I've ever seen him so sick. It's hard to believe it's his own body makin' him this way,"

"I don't know much 'bout this thing but I'm gonna give it a shot and assume it'll pass with time," Steve hesitated. "Hey, it was like that for me,"

Darry's open mouth is shut once he hears footsteps creeping in closer to the room. "The nurse is here again. Give her some space," Darry says, scooting his chair away from the bed. Steve does the same when the nurse emerges from the doorframe, performing her routine as usual _—_ checking for a temperature or if his blood pressure's gone amiss. "Isn't Soda supposed to be in some other unit?"

"Normally, we would have him taken to detox. His case is different, considering how the coma complicates things. He needs more monitoring than what he can get there," The nurse responds, scribbling some words into her chart while mumbling something incoherent. "There's nothing to be worried about. His blood pressure's a little high, but there's no fever,"

There's a something in the nurse's eyes telling them there's more to say. "I remember when he was first brought in a few weeks ago. None of us thought he would survive, but he kept on improving like somethin' we have never seen. But look at him now, and I ought to think you should be grateful he's with you,"

"Yep," In the end, neither Darrel Curtis or Steve Randle knew a nurse could be so right.

* * *

Ponyboy didn't have much else to expect when the only greeting at the door was Two-Bit sprawled on the couch with a thousand-eyed stare. He sure acted like a drunk off the liquor, but these days it was more often the former. "Why you here so early?"

"The afternoon ain't early. Besides, I left early today 'cause I didn't need to stay on campus doin' nothing," Ponyboy answered, taking a seat in the armchair. "Where did you get the booze? I might as well take a swig,"

Two-Bit scratched the top of his head and scrunched his brows. "What's wrong? You don't ask for a drink unless something' went down,"

Ponyboy scoffed, lighting up a cigarette with unsteady hands and popping it into his mouth. "Just a professor that tipped me off,"

"You know what this reminds me of? Back when I used to babysit you," Two-Bit slurred, slapping the weed out of his mouth.

"Hey!" Ponyboy barked, pouring a drink from the bottle that had appeared on the floor _—s_ omething Steve would've called a 'mystery' back in the day. "I can't smoke, but you can drink 'till you can't see straight?"

"Just enforcing Darry's rules, man. He knows what's good for you," Two-Bit suggested, leaning closer to him with squinted eyes like a mother. "Think he's still shook up over that smack incident, sorta like that Elvis song,"

"Hell, I still am. That experience was a doozy," Ponyboy shuddered, his lips stretched into a thin line. He wasn't a fan of the constant reminder of that very night. "Now that I think about it, we should probably start cleanin' up Soda's room,"

"Let's wait until the others get here,"

"Sure," he answered but before he could open his mouth any further, knocks thundered from the front door. "I'll get it,"

He wasn't sure to expect when he'd cracked the door open. Keeping the door unlocked was a set law of the Curtis home. Anyone in the tight-knit neighborhood knew and didn't bother to barge in. But what he expected even less was broad at the front door. "Uh, hey,"

Ponyboy couldn't help but to first notice she was dainty, with her Napoleon complex and brown puppy eyes. She brushed off her peasant dress and strayed her eyes from the approaching gaze of his. "I'm looking for Soda," she said, voice hardly above a whisper.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for Pony to catch on, recognize from the glances he'd taken of her in the past. She was Sodapop's girl and rumor had it that behind that innocent look, she was one hell of a dealer. "Well, miss. If you cared for Sodapop, you'd have looked for him weeks ago,"

Her eyes stretched wide open and an offended expression emerged. "We ain't ride or die. I let him take his time, but I haven't seen him in weeks." But one look at Soda's younger brother was enough to have her gasp. "Oh glory, what happened?"

"Whose the broad at the door? She here to sell cookies or somethin?" Echoed Two-Bits voice from the TV room, followed by a few drunken chuckles.

Pony turned his head, though he couldn't help but let out a smile. "Shut your mouth, it's Sodapop's girl. Gotta talk to her,"

He shut the door behind him, delivering a venomous stare. Even had to take a few breaths to pacify himself, tell him he can't see the full picture and that she's just a girl. "Overdose, from the shit you keep on giving him. Heard him say something you have it to him for free, did you?"

She cowered back, scoffing."Why wouldn't I give my man what he wants?"

"Cause you nearly got him killed," Ponyboy about yelled, his words cracking at the end of its delivery. "Soda... fell into a coma. Don't want to talk about it,"

"Oh shit, oh shit." She gulped, real awe in her voice _—_ the sound one makes when they care _—_ or pretend. "I'm gonna give him a visit,"

"Shoot, I ain't letting you _—_ he don't need you—we don't need you,"

"Hey, you're his kid brother, aren't you? Sodapop's told me a lot about you. Figured you would be more understanding-"

Ponyboy couldn't help but give in. He owned a heart far too big to leave her in the dirt. "Fine. I'll let you visit him but any hint he's bothered, you're outta there," Her unshed tears couldn't let him say no _—_ especially with how pretty she was. It was that smile in her eyes made him feel he'd done the right thing. "Let me give you a ride,"

* * *

The car ride was as silent as night, nothing but the purr of the engine filling in the empty air. No words exchanged, not a single look exchanged. But that was before the silence began driving him insane, before his brain started to reflect everything he knew about his brother. "So, tell me about Soda,"

Her eyes drop before her painted toenails, shrugging her shoulders. "Well, he was nice. Nice enough. Heard war makes you mad and I guess that's what happened,"

Words tumble from his mouth _—_ the kind where he doesn't know come from. Guess it's true what they say, that he's becoming more like Darry with each day. "He hurt you?"

For a moment, Pony thought she was about to swoon. "No, nothin' like that. It's just...Soda's quite the strange cat, but I love him that way," she sighed. "Don't really know what else to say,"

He allows the silence to continue its invasion in Steve's muscle car. Pony took the signs as it was and figured she was a little lovestruck. He knew all about that, how love tricks and gets the best of people. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about Cathy Carlson and his heart pangs. He swayed the topic faster than he swayed the car. "Never got your name,"

"I go by Bonnie. You're Ponyboy, right? Hard to forget a name like that,"' Bonnie chatters like it's nothing but small _—_ naivety you can't help but recognize on the dot.

Ponyboy couldn't believe his eyes, or his ears for that matter. She got the looks of a teddy bear, the name of a cuddly stuffed animal. At the same time, she gives off anything but innocence. "That's me,"

Why are you a dealer?" he asked, not that it wasn't a blow of curiosity that had made him question. It was a deep-rooted hostility hidden underneath his closest act to passive-aggression. "Reckon using and selling are two different things,"

"To keep me and my family above the water. For people like me, unconventional ways are the only thing making ends meet,"

Ponyboy leaned back against the seat, using his free hand to card through his hair. There was something in the last few weeks that left him without a hand on impulse. Somethin' that advanced in battle, tipped him over the edge a little more often. Made it so he couldn't help but give another threatening stare to the girl he'd only met minutes ago. "You're gonna get a look of what your deals did to my brother,"

"How was I supposed to know he'd OD? Soda knew how many grams it took to make him high,"

"We're all Soda's family and all of us are pissed. But I'm not afraid to give you a chance," Pony shrugged, thinking deeper than his daydreams to poke a hole in her demeanor. "I know you didn't mean to get him killed, but you gave him the drugs and it's why we're angry,"

Bonnie swallowed, fumbling around her pocket to take out a blunt that wasn't there. "How is he? I mean, he okay?" she stumbled, giving a look on her face that made it seem as if it were life or death in that very vehicle.

"He was in that coma for a week and he's still recovering from the damage. Then there are the withdrawal symptoms, too. He's out most of the time, but last time I was there he was better than I'd seen him in a while. He calls out for you sometimes,"

Bonnie drew back the bunches of her overgrown hair behind her ears, the sight of the hospital building making her legs bounce. "I get that you're mad, but don't blame me. He asked for-"

"At this point, I don't know who to blame," Ponyboy disrupted, clutching the steering wheel as if it was a lifeline. "Well, we're just about here. I'll show you where he is, but I gotta warn you. Our oldest brother won't be too happy,"

"All I need for him is to let me speak a few words with him. Give me a few minutes with Soda and I'll be happy,"


	20. XXI

One glimpse into the hospital room and it isn't the same. There's an energy that's died down, an atmosphere that's bone-chilling cold. His oldest brother's head is lodged in-between his arms, the eyes of his best friend's brother lost in familiar surroundings. Sodapop seems to be peaceful in his profound sleep, expression relaxed and breathing slow. But if things were fine, why couldn't the boys at his bedside face to look at him?

"Darry?" Ponyboy summons from the doorway, feelings of concern settling in his stomach. "What happened?"

Soda's sweetheart stood right at his heels, eyebrows tipped up and her face pinched. There's a pleading look in her eyes, but he doesn't give in. "Stay here. I gotta talk to the big man," he whispers into the hallway, making his way into the room.

Darry's eyes are wide, confused once his younger brother's in his sight. "Pony," he exhales, tired eyes roaming from blank spaces and onto his younger brother. "You missed the incident that went down in here,"

"What incident?" Ponyboy gasped, hunching over his brother in concern. He gives an imploring stare, mind uncomprehending when he says, "He's lookin' okay..."

Darry set free a deep breath, his head shaking in disbelief. "Soda had a panic attack not too long ago. Couldn't get him to relax, so the nurse had to come in and sedate him,"

Pony's voice escapes his throat weak and measly, realizes his brother's sleep is nothing but deception. "Why in hell would he have one?"

"He knew about the psych ward. I thought we were being careful with talking to him when he's out but..." He trails off, allowing his kid brother to answer the question on his own. "Soda doesn't wanna go. Rather, he doesn't realize he's gotta go,"

"I figure he's still reeling from everything and doesn't want to come to grips with reality. Not yet," Darry goes on, voice hoarse with a reluctance to speak a word. "He don't want to live, Pony. And I thought the doc was bein' too far-fetched,"

"I know, I know," Pony stuttered, placing his hands on his head. "I ain't oblivious" comes out as a sneer, an offended voice. Darry doesn't push it further, knows that his choice of words can set him off when his mental state's so delicate. "We all know exactly how he was before he... he..."

"Don't get yourself worked up," Darry soothed in a low tone, placing a hand on his little brother's shoulder. "I don't want you to remember what happened. You gotta let it go 'fore it gets to you,"

"I can't let it go, Dar. Keep seein' him in my dreams, gasping for breath and blue," Pony chokes out, his voice shaking with unshed tears. He suddenly feels light to his feet as cold sweats drip down his back. "Thought he was dead. I really thought he was dead,"

"Aw, Pone," Darry says, frowning a grimace that looks sadder than shedding tears. He wraps his arms around his little brother crumbling under the weight of it all, feels as his he and loses all control. The tears that leave stains on his shirt make his eyes water. "It's gonna be okay,"

"I'm starting to wonder when things will get easier for us," Ponyboy chokes out between sobs, and with that comes out all the revelations about the girl who's waiting at the doorway. He starts mumbling sorry on repeat before an awkward silence takes over. Before Darry's feelings of sorrow decide to take over.

"We'll let her in soon. Soda was calling out for her so I figure he needs her," he sighs and loosens his grip, restraining the anger that burns when he gets from the sight of Bonnie Perez. "I'm disappointed, but I understand why you brought her here. Let me talk to her,"

"I ain't gonna go to her like this," Pony spat, burying his head in his arms and wiping the unstoppable flow of tears. "She's right out there,"

"You won't. I'll go deal with the broad," he mutters from below his breath, feelings of passive-aggression and reluctance to insense to say the girl's name. But his anger loosens when he tells his kid brother, "Don't keep everythin' in like that again, okay?"

Darry doesn't wait for Ponyboy to give a nod. He comes to his feet at dizzying speeds, walks over to the doorway ready but unprepared in the meanwhile. In a flash, there's a girl that stands in front of his sight in a stature so short it's got him wondering why a man like him finds her so intimidating. From her hippie style to her wide brown eyes, there doesn't seem as if she can do anything wrong. But deep down, he knows that it's only a deception on the outside.

The oxygen's sucked right out of him when he opens his mouth and attempts to speak a word. He's at a loss for any meaningful words, any words he can use to prove everything's she done wrong. The memories of his brother gasping for oxygen, unable to breathe start playing on repeat. It only fuels the fire within, a flame of hatred and curiosity. But he's got more than a feeling that Bonnie knows, that she just has to see with her own eyes to make it official. "Hey. You're Bonnie, aren't you?"

"Yeah," she breathes, letting out a strained smile—the wide grin that's deceiving even to herself. The kind that makes her forget for a while. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

Darry pictures the heroin—powder lodged in the farthest end of the closet and paraphernalia scattered across his brother's room. His little brother stabbing his veins with needles to keep him hanging on by his fingertips. Bloody brawls pitting brothers against brothers, Soda's once sparkling eyes turned dead. "Look at me," he sneers, poison pooling in his mouth ready to spit. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't shoo you out of this town,"

Though Bonnie's feet backed away, her fiery gaze stood still. An offended look erupts and her hands are raised in defense, surrendered before the battle begins. "You don't understand," her breath hitched. "He asked for every gram he bought and it's my damn job to supply. You ever have family who work their ass off and can't afford a thing to eat?"

Darry's towering frame leans over her like the Empire State Building. A flash of a look into his eyes and a glimpse of all his brawn gets her pleading, eager to scram. But not even his intimidation happens to get more frightening than the painful silence. "It doesn't have to be like this. Please, don't..."

A fit of rage melts into sadness when he sees the girl barely hanging, flinching from a blow that doesn't come. "I ain't gonna put my hands on you. The Curtis brothers don't do things that way," he sighs. "I don't understand your line of work, not for a second. In my eyes, I don't see how there's anyone else to blame for his pain,"

"I'm just tryin' to make things right and can't if I don't step into that room. You ain't got nothing on the two of us,"

Without superglue, his brother can't be fixed. As petite as Bonnie stands, he's got the realization that she could be the glue that sticks him back together. His eyes forced to take in the sight of Soda's weak body, his ears forced to hear what comes out of his broken mind. He can't speak of the knowledge that runs deep down, tells him it's out of his hands. "Then prove it to me—prove to all of us you're the real deal. But I swear, you set my brother off and you're done,"

She's about ready to drop her knees on the tile floor when she replies, "Thank you," and with a spiteful gleam of his eyes, she knows it's a hit or miss when it comes to Darrel Curtis.

Bonnie steps into the room without regrets. With a bit of an eye on Sodapop Curtis, the slate's wiped clean of whatever drugs fuelled their relationship and whatever they've had. It's up to the bit of authenticity, the attachment rooted within that looks to be the hero of the day. But it takes contemplation to know if the love—a real connection is in there. The real mystery is if she meant anything at all to a war veteran searching to cope.

She's gone through enough hospital visits to not be left staggered by his appearance, and the descriptions of his younger brother make the experience a breeze. He's pale and sweaty and looks like he's shaved off a ton of weight. There are machines and wires but he looks lively under a sleep more drug-induced than real. Once she finds the familiarities in his appearance, it's difficult to remember that he hasn't been up and moving for weeks.

Whether it's ignited by lust or love, he still looks beautiful in her eyes. Every second her eyes linger on his face, she's transported back to times that feel like a wonderland. Or maybe, she's too struck by the past to recognize reality. Bonnie's ears don't catch much, but the excitement dies down when the phrase is forced into her ears, "...He had a panic attack not too long ago. He's out of it..."

It's after his eyelids start to flutter that the will to speak comes alive. "Soda?" Bonnie whispers. "I'm here,"

Soda gave a low moan, body squirming under thin covers. "Bonnie?" he mumbles as his eyes come to a close. Soda's voice is only a whisper and difficult to hear, but it's Bonnie who can understand him clearly. Everyone in the hospital room thinks the thrill is over, but as it's discovered he's found enough strength to talk more. "...How..."

"I was damn worried about you. I'm still worried," She exhales out of relief and doesn't realize the tint of guilt that comes. "Cmon, baby. Wake up for your girl,"

"M'Tired," comes out slurred and it's reminiscent of his typical heroin-infused speech. Her body starts to shift under the weight of stress and Soda's brows furrow. "Don't leave,"

"I ain't leavin'," She chuckles, and with that emerges a bewildered stare on his face. She places a hand over his and says, "I'm stayin' here 'till you're all good,"

The three men watching vigil seem to vanish as the pair engages in strange reconnections—a hippie and the veteran in a once bleak hospital room brought to life. He starts mumbling in tones too low to comprehend. But through the garble of speech she catches, "Look at you...You're so damn beautiful,"

"I'm flattered, but your eyes ain't even open," she shook her head in amusement. "But hey. Even with that tube in your nose, you still look damn good,"

Darry's face is a shade of almost cartoon red when he whispers to his younger brother, "I think it's time to give them a little space," and drags him by the arm out of the hospital room. He gets a look at Steve, expects a playful smile as their voices tune to a hum. Yet he's a stoic, arms crossed and eyes squinted into slits. "I'm gonna figure you don't wanna be the third wheel,"

"Don't you think there's somethin'...off about the broad?" Steve replies in the midst of deep contemplation before his head shakes in disapproval, eyes growing dull with a hidden flame. "I don't trust her, man. It's all wrong,"

"Me neither," Darry confesses, shaking off the facade that he's created without knowing. He lets out a whiff of air that grown within like a balloon as the doubts and displeasures grow in the meanwhile. "But... Soda looks happy, doesn't he?"

Steve turns to a Ponyboy turned silent, gives him a smile to assure he isn't some enemy for bringing her type here. But he's at a complete loss when the response causes Pony's guilty eyes to hit the floor. "Sure. And hey, she kinda reminds me of Johnny. I mean, just look at them eyes,"


	21. XX

_hey didn't have candlelit dinners at that special place, typical walks in the park as the picture perfect couples in film. Date nights were more of an indulgence, wicked and placed in a hippie commune more than a community of men who looked like Christ, women wearing pairs of Janis Joplin shades. The cabin in the heart of the woods, the one where campfire smoke always ran loose and the drugs flowed like when Jesus turned water to wine stood incomparable._

_"Give me a minute and I'll talk you outta that dress of yours," Soda growled, brawny arms encased around the girl's tiny waist. "Just spread them legs and I'll do all the dirty work,"_

_"Sounding a little cocky today, hmm?" Bonnie returned, pitching toward Soda's body with her delicate skin against his rough exterior. "Shut your mouth with the teasing and prove to me what you can do,"_

_"You're telling me, Bon-Bon? The one who couldn't shut that whore mouth the other day?"_

_"Cmon, you know I hate that name," Bonnie snickers and works to pry his death grip off her body. But in the blink of an eye, she's tugged in closer by rough and calloused hands. Although suffocating, the glory of the warmth is enough to wash away the troubles into the tide._ _"Pretty please?"_

_"Knew you'd come back for more. That's all you want_ — _this body of mine and my money," Soda sneers. His eyes are the candle and her own are the match. Before the two know it, then and there ignites a fire that doesn't quite come from lust._

_"...That ain't true. You mean the world to me and you know it,"_

_"Baby, I'm just playin'," He shoots and it's obvious that he's aiming for nothing but a smooth recovery_ _—a_ _painful sort of obvious that gives you a pang or two inside._

_"Difficult to tell when it comes out of your mouth. Hey, it just makes me love you even more," Bonnie giggles, sunken and sinking into the impact of the marijuana fumes in the air. Soda's head drops and that's when the session begins, a pair of slimy mouths pressed against one another._

_"Hey, got a question for ya," he asks in between breaths, clenching his grip on her hips._ _"What would a gal like you do if I died—like, dropped dead all of a sudden?"_

_"I ain't answerin' a question that ain't gonna happen,"_

_"I'll be back in a few days. I'll do my magic 'till you get sick of it,"_

The hours turned to days, the days to weeks. It wasn't anything new for Sodapop to disappear, but the feeling in the air said something else. Without his pay, the once copious amounts of dough in the pocket had shrunk. He'd promised time and time to get the money. But not even the steady flow of flirtation could persuade him to try, swatch a few hard-earned bucks out of his brother's wallets.

Without his touch, Bonnie felt drained. Without his voice, the short-statured girl felt as if she had nothing to live and nothing to give. Purposeless, an incompetent who couldn't come to please anyone who couldn't stop killing themselves. She was one of those people, promised herself to not give in to her people around her. But she'd given in and the habit became unstoppable. The drug supply as accessible as water flowing from the tap only kept on feeding her like a buffet.

She was unstoppable, too. Made a name for herself, shaped her own corrupt ways of life fed on by the smiles on each family member's face. However by saving their lives, she'd ruined countless others and in this case, seeing was believing. 'Cause the real deal, the most electric man she knew lied in a hospital bed and weaker than a newborn's grip.

Bonnie's feet dragged across tile floors, pointed and traveling deeper and deeper inside the hospital building. Ponyboy, who'd given an odd sense of sympathy to the drug dealer stood as a leader, guiding her way to the spot that stood the man who'd made a sudden disappearance from her life.

It's her voice that comes out of the blue, slices through the silence that rests in-between the two. "...How bad is it?"

The words creep out of Pony's throat unwanted as the dark realizations come with each delayed. "Doc thinks he tried to off himself. With the overdose and all, that gives him all the right to stick him in the psych ward,"

There must've been superglue on the floors _—_ leaving her at a sudden halt and feet stuck in place. Her mind's too hazy to realize she's hoarse, hardly above a whisper when she says, "I didn't think it was that bad. Oh, God..."

"You need to sit down? We're on our way to the waiting room," Pony requests once he's noticed how pale of a sheet she's become. But he doesn't confess it's 'cause he needs, that he needs the time away from his brother to contain himself. Away from the bitter truth that waits for him at walking distance.

"Sounds good to me. Didn't talk much on the ride here," Bonnie replies, her voice trembling but a wide smile in her eyes. "By the way, thanks for the ride,"

* * *

"I think he's coming 'round," Steve mumbles from beneath his breath, eyes locked on his restless best friend. Darry's hands press on his squirming body, pinning Soda down to keep him from cutting off any machine he's got on him. "Hold on, hold on,"

It's a good while before his eyes start fluttering and the struggle to hold his heavy lids begins. With his slow blinks and blank expressions, he's dead to reality and lost in his own world. It doesn't look like he wants to leave anytime soon. "Soda?" Darry calls out and squeezes his shoulder. "It's okay, we're here,"

The words build in his throat but the voice is small, hardly above a whisper. it's clear the simple act has wiped his energy clean. Through all the hoarseness, it's difficult to hear what he has to say. "Darry," Soda mumbles, his hand searching for another that isn't there. "Wanna get out,"

"I know, I know," Darry shushes like he's comforting a toddler. "But you gotta stay here, remember?"

Soda moaned, his dull eyes beginning to focus on his surroundings. He sits up, looks stronger than he's ever been. But in those brown eyes is pain—the hurt from inside meant to be hidden. Hidden, yet so clear you could see it from a mile away. "How long was I out?"

Steve speaks up through his distress, the flash flood of emotions that come rushing in after hearing his best friend's voice. "Just a few hours. Don't worry, you didn't miss anythin' interesting,"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah man, I'm just fine. Should be worryin' about yourself," Steve sighed and shook his head. "You know it's been a long few weeks,"

"I'm okay," Soda mumbles, though the tone of his voice doesn't speak with much conviction. A faint smile appears and runs away faster than it comes. "Don't think I'll be walking anytime soon,"

"You remember these past few days? You were pretty much out of it. All you've been doing is sleeping and hurling," his older brother answered, adjusting the pillows underneath his head. "Doc says you still need a lot of rest. Thought being in a coma for a week was rest enough,"

"I...Remember enough," Soda slurs, but his eyelids hold their position open. "And I still feel awful,"

"Hey, we're sorry for waking you up. Just had to see if you needed anythin' since you were tossing and turning in your sleep,"

"No, I don't...I don't wanna..." Soda's voice falters, sinking to the silence that kept on growing with every passing second. He betrays his own wishes by shutting his eyes, but his lips keep on moving. "I don't wanna wake up in the psych ward,"

That's when Darry's heart began to race and plummet to his feet, give a pang all at once—all in the blink of an eye. He turned his head, exchanging wide-eyed stares and hanging jaws with his brother's best friend—desperate for answers, mouth clamped shut from the shock of it all. "...Look-"

Steve interjects, finishes Darry's sentences with his own set of words. The phrase that he did not have the strength to stay. "You don't have a choice, and we sure as hell didn't choose to send you there, either," he stumbles to speak. Steve's hands tremble when he chokes out, "We can't have you doin' what you did again,"

"No," Sodapop breathed out, repeating the word again and again until he's right on the edge of shouting. Soda's pulse begins to race, his lungs rejecting the air in the room. Just like they'd done in the hour he'd done what he did. "I..."

"S-Soda? " Darry stutters in a panic, twisting his neck to look right into Steve's horrified eyes. Soda's squeezes his hand in a death grip when he starts pleading in an unintelligible garble of words. "I don't know what's damn wrong. Get the nurse, now," Darry calls out above the screams, and that's when every thread of his comes apart.

* * *

Bonnie's on the verge of tears and trickling eyeliner by the time the story's over. Pony isn't afraid to share, but he misses out on the details too painful to reminisce. In the end, the most daunting thing is the girl who'd shown up at the door, the exact one revealed to be the drug dealer of his brother—even if she looked right, she felt all wrong. Bonnie Perez had more than puppy eyes. Deep down inside, there was a nasty pit bull.

"You're telling me he can't even eat on his own?" she gasps, bringing a pair of hands to her head. "All this time he's been in here?

Pony nods, his gaze falling to the floor. It's more comfortable seeing antiseptic tiles than it was to face the gal named Bonnie. His heart pounds out of his chest speaking, reliving every detail of the past weeks of his life. The days that changed everything, knocked him out of his shoes and about left him on his knees in tears. "I don't wanna tell you about how we found him..."

"You've been through a lot. Say no more, I know what I need to know," she pledges in her thick southern drawl, rubbing her temples where it had started to. "Feel like I owe Soda. No, I feel like I owe all of y'all,"

"Look, I was seeing red at first but now I dig that you weren't meaning to get him dead. Still haven't told me your story, though," he shrugged his shoulders. "It won't justify what you did, but I gotta see things through,"

"You're just how he described you, understanding and all. He's never said a thing wrong about you, except for the older one. Quite frankly, I'm scared to see him,"

Ponyboy let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "It took us a while to see eye to eye. What I've learned is that all this time, he was just trying to do what was best for us. He went from being a brother one day to a parent overnight and I couldn't see it the way he did,"

Bonnie's eyebrows twist, bending into a look of expression written all over. "How come Sodapop sees him another way?"

"I don't know, besides the fighting. Been a whole lot with 'Nam and..." Pony trails off, his words cut off by a wave of anxiety. "You've seen it _...T_ he scar on his stomach _,"_

"Yeah. He told me it's from the war and only when I kept on bugging him. But I figure there's more to it that none of us knows,"

"Got that right," he releases from his chest but it's still too much to handle. "The brother we're talking about is Darry, he's great and all but... I think he's gotta realize not everything he can fix," Pony's lips curve into a sad smile. "Hey, you still haven't told me your story,"

Her throat's as rough as sandpaper when she swallows, about to confess a thing or two when her head comes to a shift in course. "I'll tell you later. I-I'm ready. To see him,"


	22. XXII

ornado season strikes the town of Tulsa like a crowbar to the head—an era of round-the-clock lightning, unrelenting winds that get trees to shout timber. It's late into the evening when another tornado rips its way through the neighborhood, as the boys remain protected under the roof of the Curtis residence. The run-down home hangs on by a thread, rattles with every lightning strike that crashes down from the skies.

But it can't be too much of an inconvenience for the gang. Not when there's a bigger storm in the mind, a bigger concern that looms over like a blanket of clouds—the missing body at the table where dinner takes place. With the days that slip away without Sodapop's presence, the storm doesn't fade. The man cooped up in a hospital—the same one they'd found on the verge of death isn't the Sodapop Curtis who'd been shipped away, taken from his brothers against his will.

Darry's beginning to think he's been dead all along, that was caught in the crossfire and faced with the barrel of a gun. Whoever came back from war was better off dead, impossible to be fixed when there was once a time an older brother thought he could fix just about anything—from the roofs on homes to the brothers without a mother.

"I'm telling you, kid. Shouldn't have brought the girl over there," Two-bit remarks, his tone stiff before stuffing the leftovers of last night's meal into his mouth. "Was a looker, though,"

Darry's eyes are blocks of ice when his stare diverts to the redhead, brows bent into a scowl with an expression gone sour. He's playing defense for his little brother when firing back, "Lay off, Two-Bit. He did he needed to do," and comes to act like nothing had gone down at the moment. A cringe-inducing silence is resurrected from the dead, and it's the first time in a while there aren't any words being exchanged at the table.

"No harsh feelings, man," Two-bit cracked his signature smile, laying a hand on Ponyboy's slumped shoulder. It doesn't take a word to tell his intention isn't to bring him down, but to cheer him up instead. "Isn't that right?"

Pony's eyes are loaded with guilt, unable to focus on the friends that surround him. His lips are sealed into a thin line at the mention of his name, wrinkles forming on his brow and it's a warning he isn't up for chatter. "Yeah," he mutters, shooting up from his seat to dump his half-eaten plate into the sink. "I'll do the dishes tomorrow," he pants, scurrying out the dining room and into a room where he plans to make a temporary residence.

"Make sure to get enough sleep, that clear?" Darry shoots out from the dining table, tone as light and reassuring as the sweet voice of his mother. Ponyboy's head bounces to give a slight nod and he knows that's all he's getting from his little brother tonight. "Goodnight,"

Before Darry's head gets the chance to turn around, a voice rings out from behind. "He ain't okay," Two-Bit points out and it's obvious he's shaking his head without looking. "He ain't one to act like that,"

"Thanks, captain obvious," Darry returns, his appetite having a sudden rejection the food that's on the plate before him. Not that he ate with a ravenous appetite like he'd done in the past. "Think we should give him some time. There's a lot on his plate and he can't handle everythin',"

"Don't worry 'bout it, Superman. I'll see what I can do in the morning. Tomorrow's my day off," he convinces, eyeing Steve with an incredulous look and their stares are one in the same. "Why you starin' at me like that?"

"Was today one of your days off?" Steve asks, sucking up a smile that screams he knows the answer. But his eyes are a different story, tracking the bottles of booze next to the couch and his bones shudder.

"I think you know the answer to that," Two-Bit says, bringing a laugh along with the words. "Sorry to say, but I might've stayed here..."

"You've done that enough times for me to allow it. For years, to be exact," Darry chuckles but it's only a split second before wrinkles appear on his brow. "Just keep the liquor out of a certain someone's sight,"

"I will, I will," Two-Bit sighs, a hint of panic in his typical laid-back tone. Or rather, it used to be that way before the draft letters started appearing in mailboxes. Before the collective overdoses of his friends left him staggered. "Our apologies, Stevie,"

It's a complete contradiction to what the two expect when he lets out a relieved sigh, beams a small smile. "It ain't a problem. I appreciate y'all lookin' out for me like that. 'Cause the picture of Soda in that hospital bed...Makes me wonder how worse it could've been for me,"

"Well, Soda got you to the hospital in no time, didn't he? Can't tell me you wouldn't do the same for him,"

"You bet," Steve shrugged his shoulders, his face cowered as the memories of the night come undone in his head—a battle against himself to cleanse the recollection that he's can never win. "Wish I was there...Wish I could've known sooner,"

It's Two-Bit's job to bring a lick of sense to the table, to get his friend out of the hole he's let himself fell into. What's most meaningful in his eyes is to prove that he doesn't deserve to carry the weight he packs on his own shoulders. "Can't change the past, man. You should let it go, now that Soda's doin' better than ever,"

"Always the wise man, aren't you?" Steve taunts and for a moment, it seems like a simple tease. But the moment's too short, even when he's got amused written all over—then out came the voracious anger. "You don't think I don't know that? Maybe if-"

"That's enough. I'm tired of the arguing," Darry wails, voice hoarse as his hands run through his hair. "I'm gonna get some sleep." What Darry doesn't say, keeps within is that his utmost wish is to be alone and away from the reality—the horrors it's granted in twenty-six years of life. Tonight, he doesn't want anyone to lean on.

* * *

The next time Sodapop opens his eyes, the world around him isn't a fuzz. He can find the familiarity in his surroundings—from wallpaper patterns less than pretty, huge blocks of machines. But for the first time, there's a someone who's familiar. Someone too real, a woman who brings too much satisfaction and warmth to be a hallucination. He remembers Bonnie Perez in bits and pieces—dark locks of hair and a soothing voice, meeting her eyes in the same place she sits.

He recalls the fear ripping through his insides, the way he struggled for air and sweat prickling his hairline. It was before he could process a thing that the lights were out, consciousness faded back into the nothingness. He doesn't try to piece the puzzle, recollect the rest. The girl in his sight is more important than anything he can remember. "Bonnie?"

"Hey, baby," she responds, a sudden flash of warmth diffusing to the cold atmosphere all around. Bonnie doesn't appear the way he remembers, with her feminine touch gone and dark circles beneath her eyes. In the harsh light, he's spotted a fading bruise on her cheek and ponders if it's the sobriety that makes him see the things he couldn't. "How you feeling?"

"I'm...I'm fine," he lies, grimacing at the ache that shoots from his stomach. With that, the memories of withdrawals come to mind and he cringes at the vulnerability and misery of it all. "What's with the-"

"That was Uncle Petey, again," she sighs, feeling as tears spike at the corners of her eyes. "Cmon, don't worry about that. Should be worryin' about that fever you've got,"

"Do I need to barge into your house and show him what's good?"

"A little birdie said it's been a while since you've gotten out of bed. I doubt you'll get on your feet and kick ass anytime soon,"

"Gonna take a wild guess and say it was Pony," Soda shrugged, slumping back against the hard-as-rock bed. His mind can't seem to fix the words the next time he opens his mouth. "He shares too much...I..."

Bonnie shushes her partner, a troubled look in her eyes threatening to make its way in tears. It's ironic, but not the amusing kind when she starts to stutter when she says, "D-Don't try and talk. I know you've got speech problems and everything,"

It's the first time it takes an effort to speak. When he does, his voice passes his lips slurred and unsteady. "I don't got time for the pity. I ain't feelin' good," he groaned, clutching his stomach tight and shooting a pained look. "Give me some water, will you?"

"Is it the withdrawals? For the love of God, don't vomit all over my dress," Bonnie teases, flashing a smile while she brings a dixie cup to his hands. "Think you can stomach it?"

"I damn hope so," Soda huffs, fiddling at the feeding tube that's always giving him an itch in his nose. He cracks a smile through the misery just to see her own. "So, how long you been here?"

"Came here a few hours ago. Your kid brother drove me here," Bonnie responded, rubbing his back. "You were right when you told me he's a nice kid,"

"The nicest thing in my damn life," he mumbles beneath his breath, quick to realize the mistake he's done and turns the conversation around. Before she can say a word, scuffle out the door. "Baby, I hope you smuggled something under that dress. Anything." His muffled voice comes out desperate, on the verge of begging.

"Are you serious? You almost dropped dead in your house," she booms, voice loud enough to echo through the house. "If you're considering getting drugs, go find another dealer. I care too much for you to keep on shootin' up,"

It's the one time Sodapop Curtis doesn't have anything to fire back at Bonnie Perez. There aren't any words that come to mind and form on his tongue and the silence creeps in. Silence—the only thing that doesn't befall on the two. He doesn't have a clue how to deal—what to say or do. Gets him to realize, head-spinning style how the trajectory has turned in all the good he has.

"You'll be okay in the psych ward, baby. It's okay not to be okay, so you better stop tryin' to hide," she chokes in-between tears that arrive in a flash flood. It seems as if time stops its course, and when it flows again the dam's broke—this time, without a hint of shame.


	23. XXIII

he physical symptoms weren't the matters in the spotlight, waning as the days hurried away from grasp. In hindsight, Darrel Curtis should've never had second thoughts about sending his brother to the psychiatry unit. Sodapop is sprawled across the hospital bed, his vitals stable in what seems like the first time in forever. His eyes are sealed shut, consciousness dead to the world—oblivious to the fact he's planned to be sent away. Yet his older brother doesn't want to disturb his slumber despite the mind that struggles in a battle of conflict against himself. To express dreaded goodbyes when he's well aware it's the closest thing to an escape.

Darry can't be sure if Soda—in the course of three weeks lying broken in what could be considered a second home—wanted his presence, if he meant anything other than a nuisance. He thought he'd known, understood the actions to make everything wrong with his brothers turn right. Those five years out of twenty-six changed that. Now, he's lost in a world that always lights a fire of suffering. From the day he'd spotted his brother found half-dead in his bedroom to where he lies now.

"I've just gotten the results of Sodapop's psychological evaluation," The doctor informs in a glum tone and it's one whose name can't be remembered. "Darrel, I'm gonna lay it as it is..."

This time, he's got to embrace himself for the horrors that come out of the doctor's mouth, muscles go stiff at the thought of his brothers. He'd listened to Bonnie's hushed concerns about Soda—how his hands were clammy, that he'd stopped speaking and the way it seemed as if he'd grown fonder with sleep than her. The words that were spoken, the images concocted in his mind were nothing in comparison to he'd see when an episode arose.

_"Baby?" Bonnie whispers in a panic, frame bending over to cup a pair of hands over his. But Soda's stagnant, indifferent to the world that stands around him. She looks over, peers into Darry's eyes with a glance that's filled with tears and sadness written all over. "It's happenin' again,"_

_"He's got a fever?" Darry asks, placing a hand against his brother's forehead suspected to be on fire. But it's only to find how cool and clammy it feels and this time, delirium doesn't take the blame. "Soda...?"_

_"It's been going on for a few days now. I don't know what's wrong. The nurses keep on checkin' him over, tellin' me it's fine but he ain't eating," Bonnie rambles in a panic, her breaths hitched and unsteady. "Damn it, Darrel. You should've seen him, he looked like he was gettin' better..."_

_"Where am I?" Soda mumbles, quick to bat any physical contact right off him. His lungs can't even out to catch the oxygen in the air when he starts panting "No," on repeat like a broken record and that's when the downward spiral continues like water swirling into a drain._

A voice cuts through his thoughts like a pair of scissors. "He's showing signs of a major depressive episode. Early stages of catatonic depression. I'm gonna have the patient transported into psychiatry as soon as possible." the doctor isn't reluctant to tell, as if it's no big deal—overlooking of the gang that's huddled around with anxious faces. But Darry's got no say in the manner when he's caught in the trap of his mind, a dreamlike haze he doesn't escape 'till the doctor steps out into the halls.

"Cmon, man. Just let it out, you'll feel better," Two-Bit consoles, rubbing his friend's shoulder, It's a surprise when Darry sinks into him and a preposterous, fleeting thought when he thinks there's a leak in the roof—unknowing of the tears that flow like a river.

The words escape Ponyboy's throat hollow, nervous hands carding through his head of hair as eyes meet—the younger brother who can't deal with the display of vulnerability. "Didn't Bonnie say she'd come? Where is she?"

Two-Bit's voice is mellow, contained—the first time in a long time you can't hear his trademark grin. He's back to square one and stinking like a distillery when he slurs, "I never thought you'd get so worried for a girl named Bonnie Perez,"

When its Steve's turn to talk, his words pass his lips harsh, almost withdrawn from the tensions rising like hot air. "Don't you see the bruises on her face? You keep on seeing 'em every time she shows up," he mutters and his face is embellished with a scowl that doesn't grow from anger. "I'm telling you, man. She's fishy,"

"Well, she's the only one who can get Coca-Cola to talk," Two-Bit remarks, batting an eye towards the sleeping form with a cautious look. With a furrow of his brows and the introduction of a frown, it's clear he doesn't process the sight before him. "Just look at him. He's out of it, man,"

"You haven't seen half of what went down. He was talkin' to the broad and burst into tears like somethin' I've never seen." Steve swallowed hard, placing his hand on Darry's trembling shoulder. His firm sound drops to near silence when he whispers, "He was pissed—pissed that he wasn't dead,"

"Can we not talk about this here? We gonna act like Darry ain't falling apart?" Ponyboy scoffs, a bright shade of red plastered on his face. But the anger washes away, evaporates with the look of Darry's eyes rimmed red. "I'm gonna bring him home. He don't look so good,"

"Meant to do no harm," Steve frowns and his expression is exasperated, done with everything and anything. Though his eyes are lost, they're just as sympathetic. "Superman deserves it, anyway. That second job—it's got him beat,"

"Tell me about it. He comes home, sits in the old armchair and is out like a light," Pony sighs and he's adrift, submerged in familiar settings. His minds swirling in confusion, vain emotions when he nudges Soda's shoulder, heedless to whether he will awake in or out of place. "Let's see how he's doin'. See if we can give him our goodbyes,"

There's no tears left to cry, nothing else to offer or say when the oldest of the bunch straightens up in an attempt to turn from big brother to Superman. "I don't wanna say goodbye. It so fucking unfair," he mumbles. "I can't do this,"

Two-Bit's eyes fill with an unforgiveness for excuses, steadfast and determined to make things right. He's become the shield to Darry's sight away from his brother, hardly aware of the second thoughts scattered in his head. "Hey, yeah you can. You're invincible,"

Ponyboy wonders what's happened to his family—facades crumbling, tensions ripping each other apart, crushing emotions sending every member to the edge. He doesn't the remember the time when suffering didn't go hand-in-hand with four boys trying to survive. But the worst thing was seeing his once golden brother turn to dirt and the eldest shattered into pieces, working himself sick.

"He's right," Ponyboy assures, shoots a crooked smile towards his older brother and leans into his brother—longing for his brotherly touch. "Hey look, I think he's coming 'round,"

The words burst like an explosion and Darry is a firecracker when he pushes his brother off his arm, darts in closer at a speed that usually doesn't come from a person so rundown. "Cmon, buddy,"

"Relax, Dar. He's gonna wake up," he says and it's painfully clear he's made a reference to the recent past. To the times his brother wouldn't—couldn't wake up no matter the pain that lasted in his soul. No one tells, but everyone knows that all members of the family keep on reeling—mourning for the loss of a brother that's not there. "Let's see if he's a little better tonight,"

When Soda's eyes tear apart from the lids, his pair is lost—unfocused, inattentive to the pain that comes with his reality. He blinks his way into the world and its realizations and in an instant, they're settled right on his older brother. "Darry, what's wrong?"

The gaze is more than heartbreaking, leaves him with no choice but to make lies. "Nothing's wrong, Soda," he tries to assure even with a breath that trembles. Soda's eyes widen and that's when Darry strays farther from the truth. "The doc's taking you somewhere better for a while,"

Soda's response of "Oh," arrives as a surprise—not in the word itself but the indifference that speaks. His broken brother who once held strong opinions that sent him to terror was now degraded to nothing. "I'm tired, Dar,"

"Yeah, I know. I know," he sighs, pulling back the strands of hair Soda doesn't notice plasters his face and it's the first time he hasn't said a word about his appearance. His hairs a mess and his eyes are like a like a light shut off. The skin that's under his eyes—closer to purple and black than what's natural. But it's not something new for the middle brother. It's how he's chopped off what seems to be all his muscle from service is what's the most frightening.

"Am I sick? Don't feel good,"

"Yeah. Maybe not in the way you think. But you'll get better, okay?" Darry assures but he's scratching at the top of his head, his eyes wandering across the room for missing answers. "You know we love you, right?"

"Right," Soda spat in a sarcastic tone, a sarcastic turn of events. But all that followed was an empty expression, how the corner of his mouth turns up in an awkward stare. When it's thought to be said and done he mumbles, "Tell Pone I'm sorry," and his eyes slip close—the lights out before there's time to process a thing.

Pony's voice is muffled by the hands on his mouth, his head pressed tight on his brother's shoulder. The right words don't form on his tongue, and he's left closing and opening his mouth before saying, "Oh, man. Let's go home Darry,"

The strength doesn't build up in Darry's deep voice. Instead, it comes out hoarse and overwhelmed and his face doesn't show much but a man hardly able to keep his head up. "I think we should," he chokes out. "Hope y'all don't mind,"

"Don't worry about it. Get some rest before you make yourself sick with all that insomnia," Two-Bit speaks up as he gets on his feet. "Take the day off or so God help you,"

"Can't. We're dirt broke," Darry shrugs in a defeated, decrepit demeanor that's a novelty to all. "It's these hospital bills. You know Soda can't pay anythin' for himself,"

"We're here to help, you know. We make money too. We're all just working-class dudes trying to live,"

Darry scoffs, but this time there's not a hint of humor in his tone—looks or anything. "Trust me, you'd pass out cold lookin' at those bills," he sighs. "Payin' them will just get us in debt and..."

"My next paycheck goes straight to you, Dar. I ain't takin' no for an answer,"


	24. XXIV

It only arrives to strike after midnight—like a mountain of bricks that crushes his very soul. It's not the goodbyes that have Darrel Curtis lost, but the realization that he doesn't know who his little brother is—or rather, what he's become. Darry doesn't notice he's lost himself when the pain is worked away, when he catches the sight of a smile on his kid brother's face as he cracks his own. But it's all a facade, walls built that will never crumble.

Or so, that's what he thought. Rested underneath sheets and the moonlight that pours from the window—shielded from the pouring rain, Darry's betrayed himself. The wishes of who he's wanted to become, believed who he was. But he feels like another one he's loved has slipped from his fingertips and it's the ultimate hidden fear.

It's a time of darkness bestowed upon the Curtis home, where the air is as cold as ice—smack dab in the heart of the night. That unique fragment in time where Darry's head roll in doubts, where his fibers can't relax. His eyes are clamped open and it's become too much for him when he's jumped to his feet, scurried to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall.

Darry finds comfort in the strangest of things—the buzzing of the light, the brightness that's filled his sight—in anything that isn't dark and empty as his soul. He cups his hands under the water streaming from a faucet, splashing it on his face gone flustered from the upheaval. But once he's got the establishment that's it's only him in a house dead in sleep, the sound of footsteps smothers his ears.

"I'm okay," Darry shouts and he's unsure of where the words have come from. All he knows in the pit of his mind is that he's only a man trying to reassure the ones he cares about. But it seems impossible with a face gone white and his hands trembling.

In the corner of his eye, he's found Ponyboy who's perceived his words as nothing but a cry for a help. Darry's found another name for him, and it's savior at this moment in time. "No you ain't," he says, dragging Darry's rigid shoulders to face him. Pony gives a pleading stare—green eyes of helplessness and sorrows before choking out. "I miss him too, Dar,"

"You don't understand," he mutters in-between heavy breaths, sturdy frame hunched over the sink. One good look at himself—the appearance of a broken man is enough to send him circling down the drain. "I don't know what's with him, Pone..."

"Just 'cause he's going through a depressive episode don't mean he ain't there," Pony tries to assure, despite how he can't convince himself with his own words. A fresh wave of worry is warranted when Darry starts going pale—and that's when he knows the roles are switched. "Hold on, Darry. Hold on,"

Ponyboy guides him to sit on the toilet seat, stomach turning at how he jostles him around like a wet noodle. "You're exhausted. I know you haven't gotten a blink of sleep since..." he trails off, leaving Darry to piece the event himself. "But glory...Soon enough, it'll be you in that hospital,"

The eldest brother swallows the lump in his throat with eyes slumped over, fixated on the tile floor. His hands are clenched together in submission when he mumbles, "You're damn right, I know. But I'm so worried," and his last few words are insecure, broken off from the strength he attempts to show.

"There nothing we can do now. At least, Soda won't be able to hurt himself there," he shrugs, cracking an awkward smile to his brother in attempts to lighten a mood gone dark. "I don't want to see him with them needles,"

"Sodapop kept tellin' me he was gonna stop and it kept on getting worse," he's interrupted, cut off by tears that fill his eyes to the brim. "I thought it was over when he was outta that coma. But..."

Ponyboy's eyes are wide, his brows are furrowed with a look that screams more concern than anything. "But what, Darry?"

"I was in the room with 'em when they did the tests," his eyes are blackened with the words he can't will himself to say—the confessions he doesn't wanna share. "It didn't go well. The doc couldn't get anythin' outta him,"

"Yeah, I figured. He wasn't talking or movin' much. Don't want to know how it feels like for him," Ponyboy sighs, losing his resolve as the events fill the horizon of his memories. "Remember when he said he was worthless?"

"He knew what he was doin' when we found him. Wish I could've seen the signs. He was out of it and I was too busy workin' to see," Darry spills like an overflowing sink, but his faucet is twisted off when Ponyboy brings honesty to the table.

"That's the thing—you've been forgetting 'cause of all these 12-hour shifts. But I don't think that does a thing anymore," Ponyboy's lower lip starts to quiver and he's ready to burst. "I'm worried about you, too,"

"Can't say you shouldn't be," Darry admits, burying his head in his hands as he shoots a painful stare that feels like it can pierce a soul. "I don't wanna see you get all worried over me. Hell, there's someone else you should be worryin' about,"

"Don't get started on the bull. You've been lookin' sick and I bet you've been feeling sick today. I ain't one to say this, but let's get you back to bed,"

* * *

"Hey, Bonnie. Come on in," Ponyboy chimed from the table towards the front door as a hole opened in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that hadn't faded since the first encounter with the short-statured, pretty face. He'd grown to see the admirable aspect, yet the blame and the pain that followed held strong. Even then, he couldn't quite see through her disguise—perhaps the worst part, a root cause of the tension that hung in the atmosphere in her presence.

Bonnie is sluggish when striding into the home, feet dragging against carpet floor and head hung low. The way she's made her appearance in the Curtis home is a mere reflection to the characteristic, the hurricanes in the minds of ones who live beneath the roof. Her mouth like a gun, usually loaded with something to say is empty until she's in Ponyboy's reach.

It's only then in the physical features that he realizes she's a wreck. Bonnie isn't the chick he'd met on that fateful morning with her sunken eyes, the marks of purple and red and yellow on her delicate skin that has got what's inside him begging to ask what's going on no matter how afraid. It's only when she's seated, when the tensions in the air come too tight to breathe that she starts speaking.

Ponyboy's engaged, tracking what's left of his cereal with his spoon when her voice arrives and gives a startle. "You know when Soda will be back?" she breathes out of her system, hands stroking up and down her legs. The next time she talks, in her eyes shes pleading for good news. "How was he doin'?"

"Same old, same old. He'll be back in a few weeks," he answers, his head against his arms. In the morning light, it's palpable to see just how drained he is. There comes a long pause between the two, but this time it's too much for the nineteen-year-old to handle. "But I think it would be wrong not to ask how you've been,"

"I'm...okay," the words struggle to rise from her throat and they don't strike conviction. She peers out into the tiny window on the kitchen walls, finding it easier to relax in anything that isn't the appearance of Soda's kid brother. But that doesn't keep her mouth from opening. "Where's Darrel?"

"Sleepin'. Had a rough night, so I went ahead and called him out of work,"

Her mouth twitches into a grin—a scanty smile, the closest indicator of its existence in the way her cheeks tense. "That's sweet of you. It's what Soda always said," she says and her twisted grin only grows bigger.

Ponyboy's tone is maintained, an inch closer to untroubled when he sighs, "Yeah, that's the one I know. He can't shut his mouth for his dear life," and it's as if he's remembering the life of a loved one lost. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure—"

Suspending a conversation is the slamming of the front door, the indication that no one other than Two-Bit Mathews has made his grand appearance. This time, his words aren't slurred and his complexion isn't like a ripe tomato. "Man, you already be lookin' like a carbon copy of Darry. Now you're drinking coffee like it's the only thing on earth, I see?"

Ponyboy lets out a scoff, weary eyes trailing to the bottomless mug of coffee on the table and making a beeline for the machine. "Just tryin' to make it through college without falling asleep on my feet," and a sigh leaves his throat from the pit of his insides. "This one's for Bonnie,"

"Man, oh man. I see the brick house is here," he chuckles, eyes sparkling with fake laughter, unaware of the off-putting atmosphere—in any case, he makes the storm a sunshower in the most unnecessary fashion. "How you doin'?"

But there's something irritating in how his friend shoves the struggle into the deepest corner, laughs and jokes it off as if it's never there. It doesn't take a look into Bonnie's features for him to shoot, "Shut it, Two. Shouldn't have assumed you weren't downing drinks at the bar last night,"

The sheepish grin on Two-Bit's face speeds away faster than it comes, lead further into the awareness of the atmosphere as the high of intoxication dwindles—hands shoved into pockets just as quick. "Alright, alright. And for the record—I wasn't doin' jack last night but sleeping,"

"Hey, so is Superman. Keep it quiet, 'cause I don't think he's in the right health," Ponyboy sighs, mouth crinkled into an expression filled to the brim in worry as the memories of early hours obliterate the happiness he's assembled for the morning. He gives an impatient gesture, a pleading gaze to the hippie and the drunk. "Let me go check on him,"

Ponyboy doesn't need a reply in words to concede that the two understand. It's their faces in unision—of eyes that don't need the shade of blue to be blue, a patting of the shoulder by someone who's always keeping company. He peers into the tiny crack of the door, but the writhing of anxiety is unforgiving. Pulling it open, he isn't sure where to begin—not in thought, less so words.

He's only conscious of a few things—his vision like a tunnel, fixated on his older brother's missing color and closed eyes. Darry's leaning over a cliff of pillows stacked on the headboard, his sunken features highlighted in the bright of day. "Darry, tell me you're doin' okay,"

The phrase is left forgotten, unheard by ears that can't hear through the booming of his head. He opens his eyes, only to break the disguise of fake slumber and mumbles, "Bonnie here, isn't she? Pone, I know you mean well but...I don't want her here."

"Don't worry, she'll be out in no time. I'm headed off to college..." he brings a hand to his forehead, frowning at fever that radiates from his skin. He's planned to hurry out for the necessities of illness and yet with the flash of Darry's eyes, his feet are grounded to the floor. "Or I was, anyway,"

His lungs release a few miserable coughs, face swallowed up in pain—brows nestled tight in the center of his forehead. Cold, calloused hands begin to tremble, cueing another fresh wave of concern—a wide-eyed stare from his kid brother. "Don't worry about it. Nothin' a little rest can't do,"

Soon there's a silence, so familiar and reminiscent to the day he'd found the man at the door, to when he received the news of his parents caught in a car wreck that it almost makes him yell. It doesn't cease eating away at his soul until his brother whispers, "I'm stayin' here. I don't know what to do with you, Darry. But I do know how to take care of you,"

Pony slides out of the room faster than flipping a light switch, overwhelmed voice echoing into the hallways. "Please...Please take care of yourself. I don't wanna see another brother getting sick," Darry's seems to hear from a great distance, and though sicker than a dog, he knows his little brother is the one deserving of his own sympathies. The ripple effect had taken full swing. Soon enough, Ponyboy would be the one sticky with the sweat of sickness.

"I'm sorry. Kind of at the end of my rope here," he says in a muffled tone, hardly powerful enough to catch with ears. He's admitted defeat like something he's never done—in front of his brother—the one he's meant to protect, no less. The food in his stomach churns sourly, but he isn't sure whether it's out of illness or the sense of tension that bubbles through his insides.

"We all are, aren't we? We've only got each other," Pony remarks, setting a cool towel on Darry's brow in a role reversal of sorts. But above all the pain and the suffering, it's as clear as daylight that each brother—either by blood or bond has got his back and suddenly, he's not so alone in the presence of family.

The waterworks are dried up. Years upon years of tears restrained, for the sake of keeping his brothers strong depleted in just a fragment of time. All it took was one brother's demise—from hospital scrubs, IV drips and the breakdown of Sodapop's fibers—to reverse the blessed curse. "I miss him. I miss him so damn much,"

"He'll come back. God's gonna listen, one way or another. I feel it."


	25. XXV

Steve Randle isn't sure what to do with the hurricanes inside his brain, but he wishes it was possible to take shelter from himself. One moment he's in a daze, living his life in a flash. The war veteran watches as life flashes before his eyes, the dragging his feet—the one and only suggestion that gets him to last another day. Most times—the bits he can remember—he's upon a sidewalk or a dirt road, going on for miles and miles and drove to nowhere in particular.

He follows a rule he's not conscious exists—the forbidden mile-long perimeter surrounding the Curtis home. If there's another inkling of despair, another day of seeing his brothers come apart, it'll make him blow. Soon enough, there won't be just a hurricane in the inside. The days pass without the gang's presence, desperate and longing but necessary. For Steve, it's a test of faith—to find who he is, or what he's become without a Curtis brother at his side. In this case, he's found nothing.

The next morning, his hair is tousled, clothes wrinkled when he takes his seat in the beloved muscle car. He's slumped against the steering wheel for a while, deep in the core of his mind in turmoil that's not much of anything. It's only when he's found the destination, the one he needs—with the people he clings onto like a lifeline. Turning on the radio's a mistake. It's all fine and dandy with The Doors, but it's when the radio starts belting somethin' about rape and murder being a shot away that he's inclined to shut it off.

Above the roar of the engine, he sits in unpenetrable silence—cringeworthy if he'd not been the only one in a cramped, shabby vehicle. It lingers in the air like the fumes of his cigarette—a sign of trouble to many, but only another day in the life for Steve. He ponders if it's the calm before the storm, before he opens his eyes to find his best friend's recovery is nothing but a hopeless wish twisted into a dream.

But under the sunlight of late morning, his favorite color is blue—painted over the planet, plastered in his eyes and in the sky that's draped above. He doesn't quite mean it's the shade in color in which it's his favorite—rather, it's a commonality in everything he bats an eye upon. In everything except for the driveway of the very home that he's pulled up to.

The front door, always unlocked and hanging on its last hinges reaches the face of his sight. If the years hadn't passed so bitter, he would have had the heart to bulldoze into the dilapidated home and greeted with a best friend that he'd once thought couldn't be touched. But the envelope—striped in red, white, and blue and in the deep end of a mailbox was a sucker punch for Sodapop Curtis.

It squeaks loud when it's yanked open by his hands and along with that, the plan of keeping himself hidden is blown. When the noise and its vibrations fade, all that remains is muffled voices emanating from the corridors. Steve's feet are prying in the foreign atmosphere, attracted to the isolated noise that comes. He walks, for a distance in what seems like miles but a handful of feet into the room of Darrel Curtis.

There's not a single second to process what's in front of his vision, not before he's realized there are all eyes on him. "Steve? Where the hell you've been?"grumbles a chestnut-haired brother, his eyes fixed like superglue on the older one huddled underneath sheets. Darry's gaze is glossed over but focused on Steve—caught in an expression worth a thousand questions. But his mouth doesn't open, the stare coming to an end with the shutting of his eyelids.

"I don't think it matters where I've been when Darry's lookin' so sick," he says in brash tones, easing it once he's realized it's aimless and cruel. "How long he been like this?"

"Don't have a clue. Could've been days, but he's been at work for so long I don't notice," Ponyboy peers down at his brother once more, brows bent and arms raised in helplessness. "Whatever he's got came on real quick,"

The guard that's usually kept open lowers, and he's filled with sympathy at the pitiful sight—from the dull eyes, the pale skin and the vomit staining the corners of his mouth. "Damn...Looks like the stress has really got to him," is all he's got left to speak before shutting his eyes and pulling his face away from the sight of weakness, the misery and smell of sick.

It's clear—in his unstable, long drabbles of speech and the way his muscles tense that he's clueless, alarmed with a look that's familiar of a lost child. "Man, I don't know. I've seen sick people and he just looks different, doesn't he? Darry's been actin' strange ever since we came home,"

"He's just in shock. I think we all are, and he's got the worst of it. Give it some time, man," he tries to assure, through the cluelessness packed inside and leaking through his eyes might've proved otherwise. "Superman ain't invincible, so give yourself a break,"

"Thanks, Steve. But it's safe to say we're all worried about you, too," Ponyboy confesses in emotion-fuelled impulse. His mind isn't much at ease and is on track to the turmoil that's been bestowed upon them all when he says, "We want you here. To see if you ain't drinkin' or nothin',"

"You're mistaken if you think I'd drink myself to death after what happened with Soda. And I can take care of myself if y'all didn't know,"

"Hey, hey," Ponyboy retreats, stomach twisting in the thought of the potentials of Steve's uprising anger. "We're all in good intention 'round here,"

Steve sighs in and out a puff of the wind before whispering, "Yeah, I know," he's defeated into confessing, surrendered to his brain in conflict—a battle in suppressed anger versus the aim to be a better man. His mind wanders to what he's done—the fits of rage, the scare of trying to drink himself dead. The feeling of belonging is cut like scissors to a rope, and the all-too-familiar urge to scram breaks free. "I think I should—"

"Don't go anywhere. We want you here, Steve. You're as much of family as the rest of us,"

* * *

The first impression that comes to mind for Darrel Curtis is the unbearable, suffocating warmth emanating from his skin—the same heat secured tight in his nestled atmosphere. All around him is the stickiness, the dampness of sweat that's a rude awakening to current events, the catalyst that's got a million thoughts running through his mind. Above the ache in his stomach, or the weakness of his bones comes the sensation of an arm draped over his chest— another warm body cuddled against him tight.

It's a first time in a long time, for when the corners of his mouth are curved into a smile. It's not the type he's flashed during jobs interviews, the grin that's more superficial than a piece of plastic cracked at his brothers throughout the years. Instead, it's one that comes from beyond the surface of his skin, from a sense of unfamiliar but welcome tranquillity.

Ponyboy breathes a heavy yawn, tries squiggling himself out of the embrace he's pulled himself into. But he's taken aback by shoulders that plead for his touch. "You awake, Darry?" he says. In a voice thick with sleep, relief and worry are scattered and tangled together in a confusion. "Cmon, let me check your fever,"

"Pone?" He croaks in a bleak resonance enough for his brother's half-asleep haze to wither. Though his voice arrives in a series of whispers, it screams a touching sadness. "I'm gonna be late for work—"

"Already called in. You're in no condition to be workin', Darry," Ponyboy tells as it is, but he's knee-deep in a pit of worry—with a stomach that doesn't cease to stir. The backs of his hands push against Darry's forehead—knuckles pressed against the flushed skin and a sudden wave of relief washes over his troubled mind. "Think it's breakin'. How you feeling?"

It takes that one, single phrase for the memories to wash over—like a tidal wave plunging anything in its path. He swallows the solid lump formed in his throat, as if the very remembrance of recent events causes his stomach in unrest to twist. That is, the fragments he can piece together. "I'm okay."

"I'm not buying that this time. You're an awful lot green," Ponyboy garbles on the edge of panic, reaching under for a pail that he's surprised to see has made a presence in the bedroom. "Just in case, alright? Breathe through it,"

Darry takes in shuddering breaths, eyes fluttering from the profound urge to sleep that's already taken him. Pony watches over in vigil, but his objections are all on diverging the mood that's transformed into heavy. "Steve came here while you were sleeping. Said he wishes for you get well soon,"

"Steve? Good to know he hasn't been at wit's end with us," he mumbles in a soft, sleepy tone. "How he's doing without Soda around?"

"He's just like the rest of us...We're all a wreck in this household," Ponyboy states in an unexpected bout to speak the facts. "But I'm keepin' my eye on him. He gets one taste of liquor and the sobriety's he's built is gone,"

"That's good of you, Pony. Takin' on the role of our brother while he's gone," Darry softly chuckles, reaching out his arm to feel his little brother's touch. "Wonder how he'll feel about that,"

Ponyboy is swift to reply with a scowl when he mutters, "I can't be like him. I've got some of his looks, but don't think I'm nothin' like him."

"Hey...You're my kid brother, and I'm so damn grateful that you're mine."

For tonight, his green-eyed little brother—though not very little in his grown form—is more than enough. It's a comforting novelty to not afraid to sink into his touch, but it's more of a relief to know that Ponyboy isn't hesitant to give in. It's selfish, but there's not one wish that invades Darry's mind to bring Soda back home.

No matter the feeling of illness that pervades his body and at moments his thought, knowing that his little brother watches by his side is above all the misery. Neither is there the drive to kill the pain when the remedy happens to sit before his eyes.

* * *

There's nothing like an empty home—a moment in her life where neither dishes or family is piled up, ready for the heated banter that awaits at the dining table. She doesn't realize, but an extended family under a tiny roof never did wonders to her sleeping patterns. But when she'd found comfort in sleeping away from home and in the creaky bed at the commune, she'd found overwhelming pain in the empty side to her right.

As always, she did what her mind commanded to commit. It more of an instinct, a self-indulgent need beyond the care of others to keep herself sane. "Hey, I'm calling for Sodapop Curtis. He up for visitors?" Bonnie talks into the telephone, pressed tight against her ear turned red. Tulsa General Hospital is miles ahead of the countryside, yet she's more than willing to guide her heels to the destination.

There's a sustained pause, followed by an exasperated sigh that comes from the other end of the line. It's more than likely it's the crotchety nurse that's been bugged for every day crossed off the calendar in the past week. If a few more seconds to the silence went into the mix, she would be storming into the psychiatric ward in all her 4 foot, 11-inch glory.

"The patient's up and conscious. He was asked last week, but for all I know he wasn't willing to see anyone," she speaks in a monotone buzz, oblivious the person on the other line who fidgets around in a fit of nervousness—impatient from the exhausted moments searching and finding nothing, nobody to grasp. She clutches the desk like it's the single object she's ever touched, but it's only a matter of time before the attendant speaks. "I have good news. He's accepting visitors for the time being."

She's struck by a satisfaction that rips through her system. It's an overbearing delight, projected through a chuckle that's escaped from deep within in cascades of euphoria. It's one hell of an ecstasy trip that doesn't come from shoving a pill into her mouth and at the summit of her withdrawal, Soda's the one at fault and the relief all in one—the headrush to last a lifetime, a substance in which Bonnie's finally laid her fingers on.


	26. XXVI

_Soda's eyelids are sealed, and his form—enhanced from the pained efforts of army training—had gone slack, sprawled over an unmade bed and exposed to the world. Exposed to Bonnie Perez that is, who isn't afraid to squeeze him tight, despite the thought trailing in the corners of her mind that it's only a matter of time before the gateways to the jungle open._

_The room was left in tatters, dilapidated and weathered at its edges. Faded, cracked wallpaper enclosed around the two—bound as one in a mattress hanging above what could be considered a slab of metal. But beyond that was the drugs—pills and spoons and needles—it could all be named, found in the paraphernalia scattered about._

_The only glimmer of light comes from a single window, curtainless and often times stinging to the eyes. But it's the defect that makes it a haven for Sodapop Curtis and Bonnie Perez because in a place as rundown as it stands, the pair don't stand out for their own._

_Despite the blue that's shriveled from a sky, replaced with a darkness specked in particles of light, Bonnie's eyes—emptied in weariness— couldn't will themselves to close. She's hooked onto the smell of Soda's skin, the sinful touch and all-embracing the whole package._

Her thoughts slither in a mind that feels as if it could burst, from darkness hidden in the far end to the deep contemplation in the tail of her eyes. It doesn't stop, refuses to give her a pass into the nothingness she craves. Bonnie's breath carries a hitch when it's strayed beyond the safety of the sidewalk. She's found no pleasure in the unwanted memory, but it comes to her slamming like a truck.

" _You said you'd try," Bonnie whispers into Soda's ear, her lover's pathway to sound caught off guard. As he shifts to face her, his brows are furrowed with a confusion that she can't concede—taken with an expression that belongs to the same energy as if she'd slapped him in a face. It's when his mouth doesn't give into a response that she starts explaining. "Don't you try to love me?"_

_It's another one of those bickering moments that come and go in waves. An event that happens so often that Soda's always got the right words to speak—the slick use of words and phrases that shove her into a daze. "Who said I needed to try and love you? You're my everythin', darlin'."_

_But this time, inside Bonnie's gut belongs an insatiable inclination. She allows an exasperated sigh to escape her lips and states, "You ever think 'bout the future, Soda? Think we can live like this for the rest of our lives?"_

_"We'll live like this until it gives out on us. We'll figure it out, Bon-Bon. I always do," Soda response from the truth of his heart, though it's the last phrase that articulates in lies. "I'll quit the smack, buy a house in the suburbs. We'll have that good ol' nuclear family."_

_"I don't think we're ever quittin', baby," Bonnie's suddenly batted off his embrace on her skin. She continues, despite how she doesn't a know a clue about the Sodapop Curtis that isn't hooked on heroin, the man stemmed from the blasted war that she's grown to give love_ towards, even _when it's not every time it's returned."Wish you could see it ain't that easy. It's screwing us up, but it's the only thing besides each other that we've got,"_

_"Shut your goddamn mouth and let me sleep," he sneers, and it's obvious he's let his delusions take over. It takes a heartbeat in time for his breaths to become short and rapid, fuming in anger. "Might as well let yourself sleep, too. Tomorrow's that damned 'Nam protest and I know you're itchin' for me to go."_

Another day had slipped away from grasp, and along with that came another night where she's left holding onto thin air. She doesn't understand the yearning that troubles her consciousness, leaves her wondering why she's empty without a touch that isn't based on her hopes of love. Bonnie's tear ducts are cracked from excessive use _,_  rusted from the stressing of a man. But as the outer perspective shows she's brokenhearted, it's not his disappearance that's left her torn.

She's jerked out of bed in the speed of a flash, and that's when her feet begin pacing across the wooden floor. Bonnie's weak knees and tired eyes beg for the bed, but tonight's left for contemplation. Perhaps It's the reason you sleep at night when the dark _—_ from the sky to the horrors of humanity _—_ come to play. Tonight, under the very moonlight, the darkness includes herself.

Tulsa General Hospital calls out her name, each shout louder than the last. It's far from visiting hours, halfway into the dawn of midnight but her figure is fidgety. Even with a frame that doesn't rest, her mind's deep in a state of hesitation. And as with every moment that transpires inside the depths of consciousness, she's going with the gut instinct that says she's not ready for Sodapop Curtis.

She approaches the window and yanks it open, lungs submerged into the whispering wind that's easier to breathe than the heaviness that's become the interior. Below her watch is a smoldering hump of logs still ignites _—_ where the smells of weed and patchouli remain after the gathering has left no one in its wake. As she unearths peace in the cinders of a dwindling flame, she knows what's below is the mirror into the feeling deep within her tarnished soul.

The farmhouse Bonnie had considered home since the days of youth _—_ memories of being cooped up in a room with family members in names she can't remember _—_ they were never enough from the beginning. Visions of trauma embedded in the brain, yet she finds herself bringing the dough to the front door to keep a distant family under the plunging waters of debt.

All of the sins committed without forgiveness, in a justification called sacrifice hadn't made a dent to the horrors that ensued time after time. The most sinister of family secrets _—_ flashbacks driven to cold sweats and outcries in the night _—_ all swept under the rug. All above the pain, which had Bonnie Perez rebuilt from human into a sack of bones.

* * *

It was the best morning it could've been inside the home. The soothing of the calm still hadn't ceased well into the afternoon and one thing was true that the birds singing was a nice touch. But it wasn't the gift of a blue, crisp day that relieved the boys under the roof. The best happened to lie in the impression that the storm _—_ not quite the ones that cursed the skies _—_ had dissolved once and for all.

Ponyboy muscles lay slack on a dining table chair as he gorges himself on a breakfast meal prepared by his own hands. His brothers, all except for one surrounding the dining table, immersed in the first lively banter in what seemed like the first time in forever. Darry's sickness had faded, his appetite making it's way back and in his little brother's eyes it was all that mattered _—_ to see the family in good health and mental soundness.

"You know, we got a call from the hospital not too long ago," Darry unveils, right before stuffing a heap of eggs into his mouth. His eyes study every member of the gang to be positive the phrase hasn't left a soul on edge. "Soda's up for visitors. Any of y'all up to see him?"

"Hell yeah, man! I'm gonna go ahead and figure that's a good thing," Two-Bit happens to articulate in his signature brash volume. "Ain't that right, Pone?"

"I sure hope so," the words roll off his tongue with a touch of conviction, and it's a surprise from a skeptic in circumstance. His head shifts towards his older brother with a pleading stare. "Think you should go, Dar. I know you've been missing him,"

However, his big brother's green-blue orbs don't don't bat off on the meal before him to notice. Neither does he see the frown that plagues Ponyboy's face, the one bestowed because he knows within those eyes, he's trying to overlook. Darry's tone is dull, almost mechanic when he mutters, "I'll see what I can do with my schedule. Work starts real early tomorrow."

"Think you're well enough to go to work? You were in bedrest not too long ago fighting off that flu," Steve points out in the midst of conversation, eyebrows furrowed in an expression of concern. Nobody tells, but everyone can see how Superman's bones still drag _._ From how his eyelids droop and slip from time to time and most of all, in the way he struggles to keep a smile from scurrying off the woods. "We don't want you falling off a roof or anything like that."

A few aggravated sighs jump from his lungs, carried out by his mouth past his lips. He shakes his head with an adamant force, "Y'all are wild. I'm doing just fine. I've had more than enough time to recover." He shifts to look his kid brother in the eye and drops his tone. "Don't worry, Pone. I'll make somethin' out."

"Think Bonnie should get the memo? I don't know, man. She's shady but I kinda dig her," Two-Bit's voice rises from the chewing-induced silence. His brows are gathered on his forehead, the corners of his mouth contorting into a crooked smile. "You ever wonder what went on between 'em?"

One mention of that woman and he's snarling like a pit bull in the pound, an almost cartoon shade of red springing from the depths of anger to accommodate his face. "Heroin is what went on between them. I bet you all that smack he's brought in the home, it's been taken by her without cost." Cold droplets of sweat break out on his brow. This time, the temperature's rising and it isn't from a fever.

Two-Bit isn't hesitant to bring some sense to the plate it belongs and though his temper is one in the same, it's not only red that covers his sight. "Relax, Superman. It was just a suggestion. Besides, we don't know the full story. All we know is that she's been cryin' herself a river since he fell into that episode."

"Knowing her, I think she's already found out. That broad don't stop," the words roll of Pony's tongue without a struggle, though his appearance shrieks that something's far out of place. In the speed of light, he swerves the conversation into another avenue, "Well, I'm gonna head off to the hospital. It's been one hell of a week without him. Anyone else wanna go?"

Steve's risen from his seat, coming up from behind to give Darry's shoulder a pat. He's got more than a request when he asks, "Why don't we all go? That includes you, Darry," and Darry knows in the hand of Soda's best friend, there's not a single objection to be in the matter _._ Tulsa General Hospital is the next destination, but how can a broken brother fix the other, equally shattered to pieces?


	27. XXVII

The morning sky's brighter on the day of the visit. The coming of dawn takes a sharp turn into the pitch-black twilight as the sunbeams flare, crashing down from the skies and onto the surface. Whether it be the change in the atmosphere or summer's sprout prickling out of the soil, it hasn't got much on Darrel Curtis. That is for he shines brighter than the sun—optimism shining brighter than any and all sources of light.

But it's not to say there isn't a slant of darkness to the candle within. There's a flame ablaze, and it's nothing but scattered in traveling deeper into the pit of his consciousness. Beyond the happiness, Darry's stomach shifts itself inside-out in the confined space of his body. His heart—no matter how overjoyed—submits to a few, weak pangs in the thought of his little brother. At the speed of a light, he's stepped into the portal of flashback, taken aback to a fragment of time in where a bus came to a halt before him and the moment that followed—Sodapop wincing his way onto ground-level and into his arms.

The simple times could've never lasted. Out of three, not one brother of the Curtis clan paved the way to recovery. Life as it was—as perfect as it could've been—taken from possession, plunging from the skies in the hands of two lives clipped short. As time had unveiled, memory hadn't been enough to keep going. Not for Darrel Curtis, the man driven by the goodness of his heart into lifting the weight of responsibility for his brothers—of two boys who weren't complete.

But with a secure grip on the steering wheel and green-blue eyes stuck on the road—with the brothers of both blood and bond in sight—hope was a necessity that he'd found in a hopeless place, but to rescue him out of the cage was to see the most troubled brother of the bunch drifting away from what destroyed him.

The words are dragged out of Ponyboy's mouth along with the smoke of his cigarette. "So how you feel, muscles?" he says into the silence and the effort of a nonchalant demeanor is blown when it comes in a shuddering tone. "Oh, I miss him. I miss our Soda gone mad."

"Don't we all?" Darry breathes, the corner of his mouth flipping to fulfill his brother's unspoken wish of assurance. But it's also a smile that isn't from a facade, and even just a twitch brings a breath of spirit to life. "Underneath it all, he's one hell of a guy. I know it."

"I talked to the case worker on the phone yesterday. Said it was okay for us to be comin'," Steve Randle reveals but the tension beneath his throat is flimsily hidden—like sweeping something under a rug far too obvious to conceal. In a shift of events, the cigarette in his mouth is fired into the speeding street and Steve's about sighing all the oxygen within. His eyes are clouded with indecipherable emotion, a switch from day to night in his bearing when he mutters, "He's havin' those nightmares again."

_Underneath those eyelids, he's in a world where he can't—and won't—remember. Steve's consciousness drifts into the abyss of his dreams, swimming in deep waters—unable to be pulled into the closed-off reality that waits before him. But in the obscure visions of his fantasies, the shrill cry in the distance is a blow harder than any fist thrust into his skin._

_His best friend's name is the first thought that trickles into mind when he's jolted out of his sleep, confronted by the harsh reality he hasn't yet processed. For a moment, the sound of silence subdues his senses, almost enough to lull him back into oblivion, only to be disrupted by a racket of thundering footsteps. Before any judgment is composed, Steve's own feet slap against the floor, playing the same sound that's got the adrenaline pumping through his system._

_There's a panicked call that strikes his vigilant ears, pitch marked with a signature deepness that screams Darrel Curtis. "Ponyboy, get outta the way. He's explosive," escapes from the hoarseness of his throat, overshadowed in the midst of panting and thrashing. "Come on, Soda. Don't fight us."_

_"Yeah, Soda. Stop fightin' us," Steve bellows from the hallways, scrambling his way into the room that's come to life in the unfavorable. He's unconscious to the figure that standing in the path, unaware to any other presence except for his buddy screaming something like bloody murder. His feet are caught in-between bedsheets that have trailed their way onto the floor, hands pinned against another pair struggling against an illusion._

_It's clear Darry's exuded all the fight within as he's left the struggle to the only man who's got a handle on Soda. He retreats to Pony's side, fingers trailing upon a neck marked in fresh bruises—of purple and red stark upon the washed-out lighting._

_"_ _You okay, Pone?" he mutters, eyes washed over in a ripple of concern imposed on his startled brother_  who's got a  _wide-eyed stare, chest heaving. "Here, let's get you patched up," and quicker then it's dragged out of his breath they've left the scene_ — _marks of red trailing from the arm that a big brother yanks_  from _the dying commotion._

It's the fading blemish upon a green-eyed boy's neck that's a reminder of nights gone sour, cries of terror from a war across the country. A reminder that though a great apart, it's something just a finger away in the house called home but never to be mentioned. Bruises adorned in purple and black just a shade darker than the nights caught in shrubbery on the watch-out for an enemy that never comes.

Two-Bit's contemplation out loud comes speeding into Steve's senses, derailing his own train of thought. "I thought they drugged the nightmares away," he says, gaze trailing out onto the road that flashes before his eyes and teeth stabbing his lip. The redhead casts a crooked-brow expression on his face, shifts his gaze at the driver and continues, "But those ain't just nightmares. They're reality for the poor guy."

Darry's head shifts to the rearview mirror—the one place he's got the power to look at his friend, be engaged in a conversation that's got no place in his vehicle. "Must be somethin' in the water. The Curtis brood and nightmares seem to go hand-in-hand," he mumbles beneath his breath, but can't spot at what point the words started inside him.

There's not one pair of eyes that's laid on another when Steve responds in a hushed, gravelly voice. With hands wiping his face, it seems a few phrases of his best friend's struggle has left him beat. "He's always sayin' the same thing. Always telling us to run like the devil is after him. Think I know what he's talkin' about."

"It's his injury, ain't it? That's the skeleton in the closet for Soda. He hasn't told us a word about it," Ponyboy breathes, hands raised in a deep-rooted frustration. "You're the blabbermouth here, Steve," he goes on, blabbing in words that vague upon the hope to know the full story.

Steve's not sure what's in his throat—whether it be a hard-to-swallow pill or a lump as he's reduced to admitting, "Not much to say...I don't think you'd remember much bleeding to near death and he doesn't. Direct hit of shrapnel, caught in a crossfire—those are the two things he's spilled."

"I think that's enough for today," Darry's choked out of his rigid frame, ignorant to how his raised voice is blasting in the cramped space. "We've got him waitin' for us and locked in the psycho unit 'cause...Well, that's one another thing I've gotta figure out."

As the truck comes to an impromptu standstill—parked against the building in which the roads always seem to lead for the clan—Steve's crawling out of his seat. He's approached Pony's from behind, casting whatever's he's got to say into his ear. "You ready, Pone? Figured it's you who Soda needs the most out of us. Should be honored, man," and to the youngest of the bunch, the truth isn't much of a shock. Not when the loss of one was enough to kill two birds with one stone.

* * *

Bonnie Perez isn't touched, fazed by the seclusion rooms too small to conceal the screams, the empty and drained stares of patients who roam the halls to aimless destinations. Spend a lifetime in her countryside home and discover that her brood isn't sound—to see the people thought to be understood shoved into a psychiatric unit harder than a bulldozer. Sodapop Curtis is no exception, and neither is the short-footed twenty-year-old.

She remembers the features but doesn't recall the stay, and figures it's best to think it should be kept that way—for the sake that everything she's worked for doesn't fall like a house of cards. Not having been pulled to Tulsa General Hospital, it's interesting to find the familiarities are there to haunt. The walls are duller, and Soda's hospital get-up is duller. It's true what they've said—Bonnie always finds herself in the most unconventional of places. This time, it's seated in the corner with the war veteran at her side—drowning in a sea of gowns.

"Why did you come?" Sodapop's voice is sluggish from the coma, but there's no hint of aggression. The sound that comes from his throat is nothing but a drone, emotionless and monotone. But with eyes withdrawn from the world, there's a hand on his arm his to suggest she's there. That arm—scarred in track marks, of moments spent living under the influence—tenses beneath her delicate touch. "You know I'm no good."

She spins to face Sodapop and with a set of brown, resolute eyes pressed against his, he's got no chance of forgetting the reality that wrecks him. "I ain't good either, you know that? But hell, I'm worried about you. Your brothers are too."

Soda doesn't realize he's biting his lip, the pain that it brings until blood starts pooling in his mouth. There's nothing to look at to divert—the walls out of sight, on his sides are heroin-branded veins, to his bottom is a hospital gown and to his front, there's that someone who doesn't need to be explained. "Bonnie...I'm too fucked for them to see me. Destroy everything I touch, if you hadn't known."

He the match that kindles the anger. It rises to her brows but quicker then it comes, only to be diluted into a sadness that can't be pinpointed in her expression. She sighs, "I'm not here for all the bull. your family...they're the good in the world. Look, I don't know the full story but—"

"I didn't think they'd be up to see me. Me and Darry, we've fought so many times I can't count. But how can I blame him?" Soda intervenes, heat rising like the volume of his voice. His brows are twisted, hands raised when he says "Pony...He's just been caught up in this mess—my fucking mess. I didn't want him to get hurt, but that kid's always in the way."

"Well, the way I see it is that the kid needs you, and Darry needs you more than I know," "Soda, tell me what's up between the two of y'all,"

"It was weeks after I came back from 'Nam. Steve found me in an alleyway high out of my mind, brought me to his home for all I remember," "But...that snitch told the big man about it, and that's when he didn't want me home—" he's about to continue, but is interrupted by a defeated huff of air that comes out of the blue. "I can't even be pissed at Steve 'cause at least he's a vet."

"You're beatin' 'round the bush, Soda. Just tell me why you overdosed and give us some peace of mind," Bonnie begs, but there's a spark of instant regret the second his face goes white. The hippie can't see how she's twirling in his vision, the wave of dizziness threatening to take over. "Was that the escape? Thought I was your escape."

"I ain't gonna explain when you won't understand. You don't get it, Bonnie. I didn't choose to shoot myself up one day. It was just...Oh, god." That's when the tears behind his eyes start prickling, knees growing weak. I can't do this. That's why."

Bonnie's gets only an impression of the look of despair that's spread across his face, moments apart from when she's suddenly pulled into his heavy embrace. Soda's entire frame is trembling, shaky hands running through her slop of hair. "Wasn't lyin' when I said I needed you," she whispers, arms wrapped around his shoulders—the portal to their room of the commune opened. In this crowded room of the rejected, it was only them. If he was warm, then he was alive.


	28. XXVIII

It was the silence in a home, born from the loss of two parents—a painful reminder of a spirit of a mother and father dashed away in the blink of an eye. Yet somehow, their presence was lingering—from the smells of the kitchen to the sleepless, restless nights with a brother who'd taken the role of guardian.

But it was true, the boys turned men living underneath a leaking roof hadn't found the skeletons in the closet. With each bit of time carried in memory, a period of childhood and adolescence painted in green, there was a breathing, walking figure of two perfect parents who weren't perfect at all and like that, gone was the protection of memories displayed upfront. It was time for the obscure to jump from the back of their minds.

"When was the last time you showered? God, we love you, but we also love it when you don't reek like death," Ponyboy mumbles, and he's got a gut feeling he's great distances apart from Sodapop Curtis in beige, even as the tip of his shoes press against bare feet underneath a table too small. His eyes are more than filled with grief when a hand is pulled from it's placed, placed with reluctance on a shoulder that's thinner than it should be.

It's the doubt that wreaks havoc on his mind, shouting that his brother can't be touched. It just might be the matter that kills him—not the unrecognizable, scrawny figure before him or the stench that's made it clear that he's lost the will to take care of himself. 'Cause if Sodapop's present in appearance, he expects to find the spirit. It's a first when it's unmistakable as the sun in clear skies that it ain't there.

It's that unforgettable realization that makes him wish that a silence loomed, like the one he'd grown to loathe in a midnight spent in an incomplete home. The haunting sounds of the psychiatric ward are just as painful as what's left of the brother who once stood over his shadow.

Sodapop's lips don't begin moving, and it's an oddity from the one whose mouth can't seem to shut at the appropriate moment. Instead of chocolate—once a reflection of the kindness he could offer—his eyes are the shade of dirt. Though it takes time, Soda's gaze comes to shift to the little brother who he needs more than the oxygen in the atmosphere. But in the end, it's both who are afraid to give each other a touch, afraid to hurt one another.

"You're a good kid, Pony. I don't want you seein' me like this," Soda sighs with a pitiful smile. But from one moment to the next, his vacant stare has once again gone astray—a hand left fidgeting at the hospital bracelet, the beads of a cold sweat accumulating on his brow. "Think you should go home."

"But we're family, ain't we? That's what I'm here for," Ponyboy responds in an unsteady tone, voice filled to the brim with emotion that keeps on pouring out like water from a faucet. Sooner or later, it's going to start leaking from his eyes—the sign of weakness he doesn't dare show Sodapop in the shape he is. So for the sake of it all, he's keeping the outpour restrained. Yet for a piece held under control, the arms that wrap around his brother are unstoppable.

But in an unexpected twist of events, Soda's lanky figure doesn't pull him closer. Soon enough, he's feeling the tugging of arms against his back, and his ears catch the hitch of a breath desperate to pry away from something that should stick like superglue. Ponyboy's heart doesn't have time to skip a beat before his big brother's muffled voice floods into consciousness. "Pony...No..."

It's an embrace cut short—the salt on the wound—it's a move from Soda that his little brother's never expected, but neither is the appearance of him in scrubs, locked up in a place of people who stare at walls. Ponyboy's imagination was glazed over in sugar, but not the kind that gives a cavity. With Soda in display, there's no protection from the truth—knowing that he's one of them. "I-I'm sorry—"

The words trip and tumble out of Soda's mouth, unable to reach a footing. In a family reunion never meant to be, he's the dead rose in a vase. Soda gives the final glance to Ponyboy— a shattered look, the crumbling of a soul in front of his eyes burned into his brain. Soda's hands clutching the top of his golden blonde head when he mumbles "I...I didn't mean..."

A newly-placed hand on his shoulder catches the perturbed green-eyed brother off guard, but no looks are needed to know it's the one and only Two-Bit Mathews. His head shifts to find that besides him is his big brother—jaw clenched tight, a shade or two paler than when it had all began.

"Let's give the man some space, okay?" Two-Bit eases—eyes spread over in a stormy shade of gray, failing to conceal a raging storm—leading Ponyboy's swaying feet beyond the daunting appearance of a brother who'd been a light in his life, now eclipsed by the unspeakable circumstance of war.

He's forgotten a particular someone is there, and the long locks that cross his sight are a dead giveaway. Alongside comes the peasant dress and tanned skin, but the moments flash before his eyes—blind to the embrace he's been pulled into until the suffocation and the stench of sweat fill his senses. He's winded down, but he knows a Darrel Curtis without words isn't a good one.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Soda's gone stagnant—from every muscle to his lifeless stare. He's unconsciousness to the world that's spread out before him, and Bonnie's got to tap his cheeks to bring him back to life. "Soda? it's okay. Let's get you to bed," she whispers and in the blink of an eye, he's out of sight—out of touch. In his shadow, it's where the waterworks start running.

It's Steve's words that tangle into the harsh, painful screaming within the heads of brother's who don't don't need tongues to communicate. Not when two shattered souls and a touch does the trick. "Thanks, Bonnie. Think you'll be fine with him alone?"

"...Hey, I've been here before. My mama—god bless her soul—has never been...all there...Look, they'll stick him with some drugs and he'll be fine."

"...Has he gotten an official diagnosis?"

"...Catatonic depression...signs of schizophrenia. It's ain't good, Bonnie..."

Darry wonder's when—if—he'll find sanity in the madness. 'Cause one of these days, he'll be right where his little brother stands.

* * *

Later that night—once the upheaval of the day has reached its peak and plummeted, when any trace of light from the sky has decayed to black—Sodapop Curtis surfaces in the fantasy world of his dreams, the one and only glimpse of hell. It's not anything new for Darry when a familiar shrill cry in the distance sends him flying out of bed. He finds his little brother upright in his bed, gasping for a breath he can't catch.

One flash of Pony's tear-streaked cheeks is all it takes the memories of a very recent past to sweep over. With Sodapop in a state so low, it had sent him down a spiral of confusion—fog so thick he couldn't tell when his kid brother would blow. For that, he drowns in guilt—for the pain couldn't fix, the turmoil that never seems to come to rest for a family already marked in emotional scars.

Sodapop had been nothing but a ghost watching over the whole way through the visit. When Darry and his little brother met with conflicting eyes, he was greeted with a seething rage. But it had been the nothingness, the absence that opened up a black hole which had blind sighted him. Most of the time was spent with his hand to Soda's shoulder, alongside him as he watched over the tiny window—watching over nothing. To see his brother again—no matter how skinny, dirty, or fucked up—was the highlight of Darry's day.

_"Is it normal for him to be this quiet? He's been lying here for a while," Darry swallows the lump in his throat, head bent over his brother lying in a bed too short for him, asleep but not asleep—conscious, yet in waters so deep he's struggling to surface. He's made encounters with a nurse and judging by the tight-lipped look scattered on her face, she's been over this more times than one._

_The nurse cracks a worn but genuine smile, wrinkles coiling with the stretch of her eyes. One hell of a stereotype—always smiling, desensitized to the pain that a family member can reveal. "Sodapop's having a difficult time getting out of bed, but he's been put on electroshock therapy, benzos, antipsychotics...we'll just have to wait and see if he's showing improvement."_

_"Oh...um...okay. Thank you for letting me know."_

_"Hey, let me tell you a little something. I can tell it's been real hard on you and your brother. But... if you could do a favor for me, please keep your head high. His life ain't ending in this place, alright?"_

"Hey, don't cry, buddy. It's gonna be okay," are the words racing out of Darry's mouth, as fast as he races to Ponyboy's side. He's not sure how many times his heart can crack until it falls apart, but he's not gonna test it. "Please don't cry."

"S'okay, Darry," Ponyboy replies, but his tone is a contrast starker than the harsh light that's filled the darkness—eyelids sagging, tired of having to face the painful reality he's trapped in. "You can go back to sleep. You've got work tomorrow."

"Why is this happening to us, Darry? When can this all be over?"

"I...I don't know, Pone. But doesn't it feel like the world's out to get us?"

"Yeah, it sure does." Ponyboy gives away in a pained whine and shakes his head. His breaths have grown labored, reeling from the attack of sentiment that's left him defeated. Pony's suffocating on the weight of the struggle, of wounds left open he can't seem to overcome—only ignore until the pain is all he can feel. "I-I don't think I can handle it anymore."

"Hey, hey. You're okay," he shushes and when his brotherly instinct kicks in, it's keen. Darry strokes his brother's hair wet with the terror of his forgotten nightmares, lulling him back to sleep, the last remnant of a man in his place who did the same so long ago—to comfort his boys in the dark times in moments always unexpected. Darry knows where he belongs, and it's at his brothers' side. Ain't no place better to be, than in the presence of the ones who keep you hanging on.


	29. XXIX

The pair isn't how they've gotten there, but nonetheless—it's a few grams of grass and a psychotic war veteran that's brought them together, seated side-by-side on the bench that threatens to collapse in the front porch, blowing all the sorrows to the horizons through spilling words and cannabis fumes. It's halfway into the night when the worst elements of humanity come pouncing like a cat. In the potential madness, Bonnie's found peace, and not in the symbol. Ponyboy's found commonality in the most unexpected place—in a peculiar drug dealer named Bonnie Perez.

Bonnie's a babe in her own nature, and there's no dab of makeup that can compare. But it's reason over lust. Lest he gets up-smacked in the head by the brother who's already called dibs, Pony's zapped of his failed pick-up lines. "How is Soda when we ain't around? Figure he ain't the same person," he says as a chuckle erupts from his lips, for it's the weed that beams.

And when she laughs back, it's like God laughs with her. "He's a strange cat, but I think you know that all too well. There must be somethin' in the water, 'cause I would've never guessed you'd be down to this," and an untroubled sigh rolls out from her throat. "Imagine the look on his face when I tell 'em...if he reacts."

Ponyboy scoffs, but there's hilarity stirring in his green orbs, highlighted against the shining moonlight. "The whole counter-culture thing? I've been into that thing since it started. We all know Soda's in it for the drugs, but...I can't blame him."

"I've seen what war has done, and not just in him." That's when her eyes go dark, as jet-black as the night sky—and so does the mood, shifting like the weather that falls upon Tulsa. "My little brother came back from 'Nam without a leg. "You'd think it only be what's on the outside that's changed, but..."

There are no left tears to spill, 'cause the waterworks are dry. But the weed has thrown him into a parallel universe, it seems. This time, he's got words to spill. "Your brother ain't the same, is he? Soda was like that," Pony's voice is faint, stunned and taken aback to every waking moment in the past year. "He's hiding things from us, you know? Not sure if it's for our sake or his."

"Shows itself in nightmares. He's been asleep in bed with me, just fine. But then all of a sudden he's knocking things over and screaming." her voice is nettled, wrapped underneath layers and layers of dread—angst that thrashes within her large eyes—all revealed when she adds in a defeated sigh, "There's nothing I can do to stop it."

Bonnie hasn't got a clue what those gut-churning nights reveal in plain sight—a mark just above the neck, smeared over by foundation in a less than stellar attempt at concealing. "Hey," Pony chimes, and he's more than thankful that the smoke all around has given him release. If it hadn't, he would've have had a finger pointing at the fading wound. "Is that where this scar comes?"

There's a silence that settles over—one hurts the ears more than any sound a noise can bring. The intermittent creaking of the bench, nor chanting cockroaches could make the tension fade. "Come on, Bonnie," Pony moans, pleading eyes the spotlight in the hippie's vision—refusing to give in. Not when it comes to his brother whose sinking into oblivion.

"...He woke up one night holdin' a piece of glass from a broken bong. I tried to get him to snap out of it, but he cut me instead," she on her hands is there, the screaming in her ears from a short distance. She swallows her parched throat—taken by a thirst that no hard booze could quench. "He was real beat up about it. Told him not to worry, but he was still apologizin' after that."

"...Now that sounds like the brother I know. You said somethin' about your mom in the hospital. How she was like him, or somethin' along those lines?"

"We don't talk about that. She's pretty much like Soda in this state—but its been like that for a while. A good piece of my childhood...oh, fuck it. I've taken care of her ever since, so I would say I know what I'm doin',

_With bare, pudgy legs squished against a bed of hay—pale skin covered in red marks, Bonnie in a flawless enigma of childhood bliss. Caught in her peripherals kneels her mom, a ghastly mess of paint on her face. Mrs. Perez is the spitting image of her, and they've got it all—olive-tinted skin, eyes as wide as chestnuts, a head of jet-black hair._

_Her small fingers are dipped in paint, spread against a mother's beaming face. It smells better than the stench that's coated their senses, of filthy barn animals and burning car fumes trailing from an imminent road. In painting without pigment—color faded from memory, lost in history. "Quite the artist, aren't ya hun? You always are," she mumbles in a familiar southern drawl, the nostalgia wave of a lifetime. But if there's one thing that's never changed—no matter the test of time, or the less than favorable fate, are her eyes—a dear in headlights, unfocused stare on the lookout, forever hiding behind a mask._

What she hadn't known—in a house that isn't a home, a mother with a stolen soul—was that mama had been shoved into a psychiatric hospital. She had more than a wild imagination—reality and her imagination on the same frequency. In the night, she'd talk to "imaginary friends" the family would say. But fresh, toddler ears always heard everything, and friends didn't make you scream. They weren't a shadowy figure that marched the halls watching from a bunk-bed.

That was the devil. And he shouldn't have been there. And it wasn't long before the man without horns stole her soul, a fallen victim like a bunny to a cougar, just as the play had gone with her mother in the main role. Neither had she'd down that the man inside a roaring vehicle, sliding its way into the sidewalk would banish her to hell.

_"Hunny, we gotta go," erupts from her mother's lips as she yanks Bonnie by the arms to her feet—a tiny girl caught off guard dragging the entire way. In an almost dreamlike speed, she's scrambling to the dial. Bonnie—trapped in a youth, a naiveness that might as well killed her—doesn't understand why the hands that rotate tremble. Nor does she realize the reason why a cold sweat drips from her mother's brow._

In thought, she shows up whenever. Not too often, but Bonnie's left clinging. 'Cause there was once a mama who came back one morning, a nasty scar on her forehead and staring into the void. With that, a defect with whatever was inside, cause she just kept on fading and fading. Though her vitals always remained steady, in her mind she was stagnant—a life that hadn't really lived from that point on.

_"Marge? Look..."...take her...your home...please?" she's spilling, telephone held tied against her ear. Yet in the end, there's no amount of pleading that yields success and the effort is blown to smithereens—swept away as nothing but a failed attempt from a desperate mother. When the well-known Satan appears from an atmosphere turned somber, his ominous presence is like a bright flash of light and is just as blinding._

_"No!" she shrieks, a piercing cry coming from deep within a gut that churns in terror. A mother's instinct reaches for her child, but it's no use against a towering man as twice her size. Mama's shrieking her vocal chords to the grave as she's pinned against the wall, arms flailing in vain. It's only the panic, in eyes that spill in tears and a chest that struggles to even a breath that Bonnie registers. "No, Pete. D-Don't take her."_

_in the voice that will haunt her until her lungs give out, the devil in disguise says without a droplet of remorse, "...You don't mean anything to me, woman. You're all grown..."_

"No!" she screeches, as a mother had once done so long ago—just as she herself had countless times when the victim of his unspeakable actions, the very word's definition turned obsolete. Still, Bonnie hasn't registered the difference between memory and reality. So she batting whoever's hand is on her shoulder—without knowing it's from a man who's done no wrong. She soars to her feet in the blink of an eye, and that's when it comes pouring in from the cracks.

"Bonnie?" a mumble is caught by her ears, and the voice is revealed to be no one other than Ponyboy. In her vision, his eyes once calmed from a high are apphreneisnive—filled with a sympathy that shows he's already been over this kind of behavior. It's no surprise, living with a brother who's been through hell and back. His demeanor calms with each relieved breath she gives. "You alright?"

The silence has made its escape from its shallow grave, but it's a silence better to have than your mother's terrified screams. Bonnie's not sure if it's the weed, or the anxiety that's bubbled up in her insides that's got short-living rambles coming through her mouth. "I appreciate the weed and all, Ponyboy. I really do. But...I gotta go."

What the dark-haired girl doesn't say is that she's leaving before she blows for good. Before anyone—or rather he—get's hurt, one way or another. To have a reminder of the experiences of a brother is probably tugging at his heartstrings, and the thought of putting hands on him is unthinkable.

Pony's persistent on providing company. "Want me to drive you home?"

Bonnie scoffs, "You're faded. I ain't letting you drive—I'm walking, since it's already light out here," slips out of her throat, but there's not enough strength in her to release everything. Leaving no time for a response, she's rushing down the steps but before she makes it to the gate, the hippie turns around. She's not the type to leave without looking back. "Good luck for the rest of y'all, alright?"

With her high-pitched speech, Pony's starting to realize his brother attracts the ones who are just as mysterious, damaged as him—one in the same. But if there's one thing, she's not a parasite. It's not only marijuana he's thankful for in the sunrise glow.


	30. XXX

Steve's got colder hands, but he's also got a soul that's more chilling than any kind of physical feel. He's trapped, peering in the shattered mirror of his best friend named from something sweet and bubbly gone flat. In Steve Randle's mind wreaks a pain like no other—in a skinny figure sleeping under the influence of two pills shoved down his throat.

He's got one hell of an itch to carve a hole in the walls with his fists, scream at the top of until his vocal chords give out. 'Cause in the cramped living quarters of the psychiatric hospitals and with time slipping away from visiting hours, Steve's left with picking up the broken pieces of a messy friendship until he's left with bloody, painful hands. No matter the unspoken conflict, he keeps his grip on the lifesaver—that is, Sodapop Curtis's very existence on this planet.

If it hadn't been for him, he'd have drowned and dissolved. Steve wouldn't have known whether it was the tidal wave of sorrows or a sea of booze that would've filled his lungs and suffocated him for good. Whichever way, he would've faced a death he wasn't sure was meant to be. But that was not to say he was ready to catch Soda on the flipside—not before it seemed all too late.

And yet, the time had proven control had been taken out of Soda's hands. For him, the brakes to his car that lead to fate were broken. It was one situation bigger a guarantee than death. It had proven to be the same as death when finding the remnants of the friend he knew was like swatting a fly with a pair of hands.

It's morbid thinking, but staring down at the chest that moves up and down—and in eyelids that screen the pain that eats away at his best friend's brain like a parasite, he wishes the heroin would've killed his friend right then and there. The smack could've redeemed itself with a mercy killing, but it was too evil to make the move. It let his soul die in front of the eyes who loved him.

In a world gone mad, Steve's sanity slips away the quickest.

In hindsight, the war veteran also wished he'd been blown to pieces in Vietnam. Better yet, have bled out to his death in the hands of Vietcong bullets. He'd chased the hope of surviving a war he hadn't understood, upholding with all his strength without knowing the cause. Sodapop had died like the countless shoulders who lay at his feet, the only push to make it out of the jungles in one piece.

There was nothing in his hometown, small in size but big in horrors. What was left is a girlfriend who liked her own kind, a father who spit poison out of his cognac-scented breath gifted with fists and a twisted use that hadn't been wasted. Those two, the reason he enlisted in the war—just so he could run away as far as he could.

Soda had followed in his best friend's footsteps, speaking something how his walnut-sized brain could never lead to anything of good use. He was an idiot for spreading the bullshit, but not the kind of fool that deserved to see what Steve had. The guilt was a flood in his mind bigger than anything that's fallen upon Tulsa, with no gutters built. Even if a war had fit Sodapop Curtis so eerily well. The feeling was mutual—an island crammed with gooks had been an awakening. In 'Nam, they'd never felt more alive.

What he hadn't done is given himself a chance. 'Nam was a commonality between soldiers, and soldiers only. They didn't call each other baby killers, monsters by the media. 'Cause in experience, there was an understanding so palpable it could be touched.

The daylight from the windows scatters with the ticking of time. Yet with the sun still shining hot against the earth, Soda's muscles have gone slack and his eyelids closed, consciousness refrained and the cure to a psychotic episode—in a capsule or two that had him out like a light.

But the turmoil in Steve's brain is like a grenade blast in his insides, and the only escape from the war zone is his mouth. "Damn it, Pepsi. You really had to go out and do that, huh?" he whispers into the heaviness of the room—a breath of feeling into the emptiness that's clouded the atmosphere.

The words spill like a cascade, though he's not sure if he wants to shake his best friend from his sleep. In a world so cold, there's only so many places to be warm—the relief of sleep being one of them. "Didn't have to, my man. Look at you now...tellin' me not to get a sip and meanwhile, you're shooting up to oblivion," Steve buries his head with his hands, and it's the neverending cycle in play when he begins wailing like a wounded animal. "...I'm sorry, buddy. Just come back to us, now."

Moments later is when Soda begins to stir, tossing and turning in his drug-induced sleep—but yet to feel the wave of consciousness wash over him. Steve's got peace of mind in the evidence that it's not another nightmare, but the disappointment that fills the void is worse than the worry. Steve's brow furrows, his heart throbbing at the pain that emanates from his best friend, even in unconsciousness. "Hey, it's alright. They're treating you well here, aren't they?"

It's another question where he doesn't expect an answer, and there's more where that came from. But his unexpected answer is when Sodapop wiggles uncomfortably in the diminutive bed, shifting his head away from his best friend. It's the same moment Steve leaves in a huff, t-shirt soaked in emotion turned an entity. His destination—not the Curtis household, or his shitty excuse for an apartment.

He's letting the selfishness win the battle, and the roads guide him far, far away. He's not sure when, or if he's coming back to the town that destroyed him. Perhaps he was better off setting villages up in flames—committing atrocity after atrocity, when the madness of it all coursed through his blood like the liquor that had come to define him.

* * *

Matters for the gang hadn't changed much since the middleman was admitted to Tulsa General Hospital. Visits were frequent, but so were the dreaded feelings that tailed behind their feet.

The boys had seen it all—felt everything the rollercoaster ride of emotions could provide. At least, that's what they thought.

The psychiatric hospital was an unpredictable place. In a way, the perfect place for Sodapop Curtis. The anti-depressants had helped him some, but the emptiness in his voice came in an almost deafening vibration, shooting through his eldest brother's addled head. But it was not the mention the sudden moments of it pain, whether he be choked up in tears or allowed the salty droplets to fall like rain.

Darrel Curtis didn't know which sounded better. But what he knew through the fog that had clouded his brain—the stress of having his brothers in a place where he never belonged. 'Cause then there's something to feel, a sensation he can sink into. And it's one thing Soda hasn't got stuck in a dream world. Except it isn't a dream world, but a nightmare—a kind of sickness he can't sweat out.

They spotted him in the morning, and what followed made his breath get caught in his throat. Darry was choking—suffocating—on the events he couldn't bear to watch. But he was a spectator nonetheless, watching his little brother dragged around by nurses like a rag doll, unresponsible and still-faced—needing a hand on his shoulder to remind that there's someone familiar around. But if there's a silver lining, his mouth is moving—a sign he's found a notion of coherence. But with Darry's luck—or rather lack thereof—it's the opposite of what he wants to hear from a brother in a state so low.

Soda's standing before the tiny window, one of the few openings to the world outside the psychiatric hospital. From the forbidden outdoors emanates a natural glow, shining down upon Soda's pale hospital gown and the even paler surface of his skin. From the behind, Darry doesn't see the expression that lies on his little brother's face. But that's not to say he couldn't see the blank expression and the eyes that hardly blinked, an unceasing view burned into his brain from constant hospital visits.

When he calls out for his big brother's name, the unforgettable spark in his eye that he expects never shows. "Darry?" Soda mumbles beneath his worn breath, and his head doesn't twist to confirm he's there. Nonetheless, Darry's presence is not one to dismiss—not with the history that's scarred a brotherhood more than shrapnel to the human skin. He releases a choked noise from his throat, an obvious attempt at a laugh—humor that exists in a situation where there is none. "...I forgot to wash the dishes, didn't I?"

It wasn't a surprise, that the days following the day he'd saved Soda had always made its way back into the heads of brothers caught in the middle of the storm. "Yeah, you did...as always, but don't you worry about that," he sighs, rubbing against his brother's protruding spine that hadn't been tangible before. "You hungry?"

Soda shakes his head, but the real frustration is saved for last. "Everythin' tastes like metal. I want none of it, Darry. The shrink already tells me enough and he's threatened to bring back the feeding tube."

"Hey, it's okay. I was just wondering," he swallows, hardly able to stomach breakfast from his own sickening lies—all to keep his brother from going insane. "So how's therapy been, hmm?"

He shrugs, but out comes a second response that Darry doesn't expect—or wants to hear, for that matter. "Said I wasn't where he wants me to be...that I ain't trying hard enough," he lets out a choked sob, fading to a whimper when he breathes, "I told that son of a bitch that I am. I really am, Darry."

It's a fading, sinister history between the two brothers that keeps on waning. Darry's not sure if his brother's trapped in delusion or speaking reality, but the urge to pull him and comfort until there are no tears left to cry is stronger than his own physical strength. "I know you are, Pepsi. No need for the waterworks to start working up," he soothes, unafraid to do what he's got to do for his sobbing brother.

"I wanna go home, Darry," Sodapop almost howls, barring his gaze from his brother with his hands—the warmth of a chest rising up and down untouchable below the pain that destroys everything it touches, spreading like cancer. "I...I don't get no freedom here."

"You'll be there soon, Soda. We miss having you around." But the stone-cold truth doesn't numb the eldest brother no more. The thoughts of his brother going back to square one had grown too big—the memory of him shooting up until he's blue too fresh. The pills and the gown were a temporary relief—a tiny piece to a picture too big and only one place to fix him.

Soda was as unpredictable, wild as the weather that crashed down on the city of Tulsa. Freedom meant recklessness, not a mad purged of the attraction to a deadly release, without the torment of suicidal thought. Darry knew he was better off here than at home, no sight of the raw evidence of the fight he almost lost shoved in the back of the closet—painful memories of two brothers split apart in the perforated dry walls, lingering blood that's too daunting to clean—let alone see.


	31. XXXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter to get back in the groove of writing. :)

It takes a sole, obscure sight of the reality before her puppylike eyes to find something's not right. It's a fleeting vision gone blank when pain arrives in full force, striking harder than the shadowy figure of a man that laid bear claws against her delicate skin. There's no amount of distant noise that distracts, hardly an inkling of the feeling of a familiar presence in a familiar room dimmed from twilight—the bone-chilling blow of a crisp breeze of air from a night in where crickets sing aloud.

And as quick as Bonnie springs from nothingness, her pounding, dizzied head hits back a pillow and in place. She wriggles her body underneath a tower of sweltering layers of bedding and with swollen and sore limbs, there's not much to wiggle except her toes. Clouded in pain so intense, there's no wondering how Bonnie Perez has landed in this predicament. Instead, She's left whining like a wounded animal—feeling as small and vulnerable as a puppy.

"Don't try and move sweets. That busted rib is gonna break through one of your lungs," comes a soothing voice, hoarse from a lifetime of cigarettes of an old woman conjured in memory. Bonnie's more than grateful to open her eyes to the bright side of her tainted upbringing. "You poor thing...how you feelin'?"

"Aunt Marge?" the short-statured girl replies with such a great amount of force to the point it's painful, though it's only a squeak that arrives. Tears prickle the corners of her eyes when she croaks, "I-I don't feel very good."

"Yeah, hun. It's me," Aunt Marge consoles, thumbing the tears into extinction and giving a dismal sigh. "No matter how many times I tell you that doin' what you do is gonna get you hurt and still, the deals don't stop. Was only a manner of time," she goes on, mouth rambling out worries and head shaking in disappointment.

Marge runs her spotted-hands through her salt and pepper hair—reluctant to look at the girl she considers nothing short of her pride and joy in distress. Nonetheless, she catches a better look into the teary-eyed expression of her niece beaten blue, any and all of the bitterness she feels at the moment melting to pity. "Can't say I blame you for doin' what you do. I'm just trying to look out for ya when no one in this goddamned house does."

Bonnie's breath is hurried, arriving in short gasps that don't seem to catch enough oxygen. "What happened?" she mumbles, face scrunched and struggling to surface from the waters. A cold sweat runs from her hairline and she's only now realized that her right eye is swollen shut and too heavy to open. She thinks of Pete, of moments waking up stuck in the same predicament in a distant past that hits close—her head feeling light, limbs beginning to tremble.

In the smog, Aunt Marge's shushes come clear—resonating and almost soothing as to lull her to sleep. Her breath hitches as she intertwines Bonnie's fingers with hers. "I was gonna ask you that question. Dead of the night and we hear some redhead gentleman pull up and you're riding shotgun out cold. Said he found you in an alleyway and that he knew who you were. Didn't even get his name or time to give thanks."

Her mind chimes Two-Bit Mathews, though the conjured image of him is mere bits and pieces. All that comes to the surface of her mind is the scent of wet concrete mixed in with blood and the feeling of her cheek sent plunging to the concrete. The most vivid memory of a deal gone amiss is the explosion of pain—the racket of a cracking noise spread into the painful silence. Soon the stars had invaded to her eyesight, dancing until it all withered to black. The silence lingered, broken by the calls of a grey-eyed man with a head of flaming-red hair.

"I'm sorry, Marge. I didn't mean to get you involved." Bonnie frowns, muscles continuing to twitch under her aunt's touch in fear. 'Cause even with the devil out of the house long gone his presence haunts like a ghost. "You didn't have to spend the time patchin' me up—"

"Don't worry your pretty head about it. Was a miracle that cancer took Pete and I'm just here tryin' to give you what I couldn't with him around."

"...How bad?" she replies, slurring like Sodapop Curtis after a hit of heroin—tongue exhausted, vocal chords about ready to give up. Bonnie's vision swims in a watery view of reality, sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness and just able to keep her head above the water.

"Got a nasty concussion and a couple broken ribs. Got bruises all over, but there's nothing time can't heal," she scoffs in frustration and it sounds as if she doesn't believe what she's hearing from herself. "Can't talk well, but you're talking... you'll be fine, sweets."

"I-It hurts real bad to breathe, auntie," Bonnie gasps, moaning and eyes slipping shut—a pathetic cry for help. Tonight, the intense pain is the locks to the gateways of sleep. Marge's hand wrap around her slim shoulders and pull her up to a sitting position, the troubled look on the old woman's face brighter than all the candlelight in the room.

"You poor, poor thing. Men are goddamned awful, let me tell you that," she spits with a deep-set hatred, in dark secrets that dare to reveal themselves in full. "Hey, know how your Gramps burns all his dough on Cuban cigars? This time 'round, he got some whiskey: the expensive kind. Might be good to numb the pain, hmm?" she speaks as if she's consoling a child.

The mention of alcohol makes her pained eyes twinkle. "I'm taking that as you want some. I'll be right back..." and before her concussed brain has got a time to process a thing, Bonnie's left alone in what seems like a blink of an eye. Her figure begins to tremble once again, waiting for the man who destroyed her to come marching in and do the unspeakable. In a home with a history swept under the rug, the silence of gut-churning anticipation was the most painful noise possible.

Her breath struggles to remain steady, the seconds are hours until she's greeted with the closest thing to a mother she's ever had—a glass of whiskey in her hand, heart clenched and stomach tied in endless knots. "Open up, love," she says and soon enough, there's burning booze on her chapped lips and down her throat.

Something's off with the whiskey—a note of sickly sweet that doesn't belong but the delirium is blinding. Within minutes, Bonnie's eyelids have grown heavy and the reality around her dims. With every fight to lift the eyelids that seem like fifty pounds each, the energy and will to stay awake left to muster fades. Like the night sky, her vision dissolves into a pitch-black and the peace her aunt's been praying for arriving at last.

Except that Bonnie Perez, scarred and small in more than simple physical presence, swears the devil's footsteps parading down the hall only come closer.

* * *

There's still the grime of work and sweat on his back when he arrives at the hospital, his burly muscles sluggish and brain slow. No matter what seems like the endless repetition, the elevator up to the eight floor hasn't changed since the first time. It's the look in his little brother's eye that's set his nerves into a frenzy, his heart pumping too fast and his chest painfully tight. 'Cause if there's a matter clear in his mind addled from sleep, it's the doubt that hangs in Soda's fate.

Darrel Curtis isn't sure if his brother will make it out alive—if he'll kill himself before anything else. For that to blame was the sleepless nights, staring up into the ceiling, but not looking, the memory of Soda's oxygen-depraved face, blue and just an inch away from death on replay. Neither do the other experiences of the hospital give him rest—his sweet brother bent over a basin and vomiting to no end, shivering and disordered—begging for the drug that had him an inch away from death.

_"He don't deserve none of this," Steve mutters, his voice clouded by the painful retching that's shaken Soda out of sleep and trespassed the once-existing silence. Darry's rubbing his back and holding him up, his own pair of eyes peering into the brown irises that plead for it to all stop._

_It takes a long-drawn fifteen minutes of the episode to come to a halt. And once it does, the misery doesn't end there, "Darry...Darry...I gotta get outta here. I gotta see Bonnie," Soda whines in a volume that's just comprehensible, tossing and turning under thin sheets in a restless fit untouched by a big brother's shushes. The sweat that forms only drips from his brow quicker. "I swear I'll pay you back. I can't go without a hit."_

_Darry's core is staggering and Soda's words are yet another piercing blow. He's unsure if he'll get up once on the ground. "You can go to her once you fall asleep. Can you do that for me?" he suggests for the sake of all—for the three, silent witnesses gathered around a hospital bed and the uneasy sufferer. The words are far from the truth,but a stepping stone to the rest that seems to only dares come in imagination. "I'll ask to get you some meds. You'll feel better in no time."_

_Soda's too exhausted from the labor to make a protest, head collapsing onto the pillow and eyes, sealing close and no matter how to sleep he gets, the shakes don't fizzle out. Steve's eyes are stapled open—alert from the worry that consumes him. "Dammit, Soda. Damn these doctors for not doin' a thing," he says, clenching a fist as the flames of frustration grow hotter, his head dipping into his cupped hands._

_"Darry? Let's go home," Two-Bit whispers from behind and his hand is placed on his shoulder. "It'll do us all some good. Soda's not much there anyway," he turns to Ponyboy, slumped over in what looks like the most uncomfortable position known to mankind, passed out of the exhaustion too heavy to fight. "The kid's starving himself of sleep and having two insomniac brothers will do him no good."_

_"Pone can go with you. I ain't leaving him, Two-Bit. He's just so sick. I'm worried," Darry can't help but express, though the evidence of his brother's misery stands right in front of them all. The single reply that comes is the sound of boys shuffling out of a hospital room, and along with that the silence in it's wake—a mutual understanding said without words, that nothing can convince the big brother to leave Soda's side. "It's gonna be okay, Pepsi. We gotta be patient."_

All he could've done in his power was to watch him suffer. He could've watched Soda succumb to his assumed fate. It would've been watching him slip away into the peace he always wanted. Instead, he's watching Soda's struggle eat away at him—dropping weight and only prescription pills to keep him from shutting the entire universe out. Pony and Two-Bit's dragged himself here, even with the experiences of the last visits that have made him beg to keep away. 'Cause no one, especially the sweet baby that was Ponyboy, had to face his mentally-ill brother.

"You guys know where Stevie has gone?" Two-Bit asks into the insufferable silence, save for the creak of the elevator—tone light-hearted and stormy eyes telling otherwise—failing to hide something cryptic. "He doesn't disappear this long, does he?"

"You know him, getting distant and all. Probably in that shithole of an apartment, doin' whatever he does..." Ponyboy's hollow voice replies, back pitched against the elevator wall and numb to the comforting, calloused hand that lays on his tensed shoulder. "I really hope he's not screwing around."

"I went there to check on him. Steve wasn't there, man. Car's gone, too."

"We'll check on him as soon as we're outta here, okay?" Ponyboy sighs, appearance growing flustered and arms crossed against his chest—moving up and down in a rhythm too quick for Darry's liking. The elevator opens, and his voice following the opening out. His tired eyes don't bother to look at the response that prevails on Two-Bit's face. "Dar, I don't know if I can do this."

Darry's breath gives out in a hitch and his feet stop in it's well-known tracks. He sighs in a pathetic attempt to brush it all off, but he's got a gut-twisting feeling something is off with his baby brother. "Pony, neither am I. But we gotta do this for him."

"No, Darry," Pony says in a panic—the single phrase and the audible wheezes that follow are enough to snap his big brother out of it. The signs of a panic attack have stricken his kid brother harder than a truck, but Darry's more than alert and prepared.

He doesn't want to the remember when the nurses swarmed Soda and ordered him to breathe—except, he couldn't get a single whiff of oxygen in. Fifteen minutes into the struggle and his eyes roll to the back of his head, his whole body gone slack. But his head gives him no mercy. "Cmon, let's sit down. You're okay."

But there's not enough times he can say the phrase, because no one—nothing is okay. Not the gasping brother by his side or the red-haired watching in worry. Neither is the friend located who knows where and the middleman blankly staring his life away corridors away. And in the end, Darrel Curtis can't admit he is one of them.


	32. XXXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going in an entirely different direction the first time I wrote it. However, the entire thing ended up deleted on accident...and I must say, I ought to be grateful for that accident. 'Cause I can promise you this piece of work is better.

Steve Randle never made it out of the town that both made and wrecked him from the inside out. That was until now—his foot on the gas of a clapped-out 1962 Chevy Corvair, speeding on some deserted road with only the glow of moonlight and his headlights to guide him through the darkness. He's driving at a speed so wild, it's adrenaline pumping through his body quicker than blood—his mind engulfed in an almost enigmatic thrill as the world floats around him.

Steve doesn’t know where he's going and neither has he got a clue of the name of the highway he's on. But if it meant that the distance from him and Tulsa was growing further apart, then the destination was crystal clear: it was called away. Away, where no one could bother and no one to bother, without the tugging at his heartstrings looking at the walking corpse he can't believe was once his happy-go-lucky best friend.

But no matter how many tears slipped from his eyes or the cloudiness that shrouded his vision, Steve swears he has no regrets. He hadn't left the devastation of war to greet another—in friends left withdrawn and cracking under the pressure of an unsustainable life, to Sodapop Curtis who kept on slipping further and further away. Even with his gaze on the road, it seems as if the sight of him is clearer. It was a figure whose thin legs wobbled with each tiny effort to move, of a face depleted of everything that once established his best friend standing out against all.

The thing he was trying to flee from kept haunting and so he kept rolling. Surely, Sodapop Curtis would fade from memory—along with the smothering guilt of leaving him in the lurch. In the end, he was the one directed him to an abyss of despair, and there was no pardon—no words left from the defendant—to justify the crime. And perhaps Soda was too far down the well for anyone to hear his screams.

When the elm trees, murky and stretching out into the two-lane freeway came to display, Steve didn't hesitate, swerving into the woods through a clearing of split branches and dirt the color of Soda's eyes. It was funny, how Sodapop had to get out of the woods and how he was moving right into one. And while Steve tried to escape the reminders of him, they always appeared from one moment to the next.

He came to a standstill, knocked out of steam by his self-pity and eyes bloodshot in the rearview mirror. Peering into himself, this was the man the war had made him into, and it was a cold-hearted, cowardly bastard for whom he called himself. The battle to find himself hadn't been won yet, with the feel of a glass bottle against his skin renewing and the swish of the liquor contained no less. But tilting his back and allowing for the bitter liquid to coat his throat and muddy his senses, he sure as hell didn't realize he was losing.

There was no way anyone could get a grip on Steve Randle, reckless and rash in a haze of booze.

* * *

 

It's an hour or two into Ponyboy and Two-Bit's self-professed search for Steve Randle, and the results are rather empty-handed—the pulses of two friends racing and minds hazy in a cloud of concern bigger than the one scattered above them spewing rain. Stepping into the Curtis residence, the pair os greeted to a Darry sprawled out on a couch shorter than him, eyes glossed over in exhaustion as they stare into the TV. "You find Steve?" he mumbles, eyelids weighing a hundred pounds each but sleep never attained, like the inner peace lost and yet to be found.

"No, Darry. We looked everywhere for him. Oh, God. What if he was drinkin' and decided to go for a joyride?" Pony gulped, his set of eyes in youthful green confronting the ones of the redhead to his side. It seemed as if the storm within them was so wild, nothing to be deciphered but the color gray—all kinds of emotions whirling in those winds.

"Cmon. He ain't that selfish," Two-Bit sighs and the hesitant tone in his voice assumes otherwise, ruffling Pony's head of hair. The words roll off tongue hollow when he adds, "Let's get some sleep before you end up like someone here. I'll talk care of him for the night."

But the nineteen-year-old didn't let the anxieties within coincide. He never could, anyway. Pony had grown to be alert, in his mind a never-ending anticipation for tragedy to strike the family. "Well, maybe not. But he's more unpredictable than Soda these days."

"Don't you mention it. I miss that part of him," Darry laments, desperation sinking in through the cracks of a little brother's heart. His face was ashen, the bags beneath his eyes sunken and most startling: a once lively stare stagnant. The irony would've been amusing if it hadn't been that neither of them could sleep well knowing that Superman was sleepless, consumed of everything that had him termed a superhero. "I'm gonna shower," the oldest of the pack says with a voice barren of sentiment—of the stubbornness and pride that had once shaped his fibers. He thrusts his strengthless body off the couch and heads into the shower, and just like that he's vanished, estranged from the eyes begging to see him more often.

"Alright, Darry," is all that Two-Bit can answer, but it's not that his mind doesn't speak a million phrases. His mind races in thought and yet without strength, there's no way he can let it out as smooth a puff of air. And for the welfare of a well-built brother in a parable of his own self-pity, leading him back to an unrelenting reality would be left for another time, because that's the world he's sprinting away from.

"Y'all know where Bonnie went?" Pony asks into the stillness, his eyes peeking into half-opened blinds, idling for a short, tanned-skin girl to appear at his doorsteps beautiful without effort. He was enamored to Bonnie's story underneath that tough shell, a puzzle without a piece found. It had taken just a month to grow fond, and likewise, develop an apprehension of the dangers her business posed.

Two-Bit swallowed, his gaze searching for something—anything—else than to take in the view of the auburn-haired man before his feet. 'Cause neither did he want to come in terms with the display of the girl lying still on the watery concrete or the black and blue of countless bruises upon her spotless skin. "Yeah, um..."

Pony rolled his eyes, smacking a pair of hands against his cheeks in one his classic, dramatic performances. "Please tell me you didn't tell her to get lost," he scoffed. "Bonnie's Soda's girl, so of course, she's gonna be around."

Though the answer received is a steady flow of silence, save for the sound of running water, and a set of brows furrowed into a look of unease. It takes one moment of insufferable silence for his tone to become panicked, "Two-Bit. What the hell happened?"

He clears his throat, guiding Ponyboy to take a seat on the couch before the short-lived secret is unveiled and the weight lifted off his shoulders. Since he doesn't know where to start, it's a flimsy burst of rambling which begins. "She must've gotten jumped or something, 'cause I was out walking home to see my mama when I came across this shady lookin' alleyway. For some goddamned reason, I find her on the ground, and she's...well... I picked her up and she whispered the address. So I took her there. No biggie."

Ponyboy tells himself he shouldn't care. Although, above the internal debate of whether she's to blame for his brother's overdose are those large eyes like Johnny Cade's, brown orbs eclipsed in a perpetual feeling of dread from a history not left behind. And if there's one thing he could do, it was to give a hang.

Soda only seemed to want her drugs, but the green-eyed brother wanted to solve her mystery. But tonight, his search isn't much deeper than the surface, not with the squeezing at his chest upon hearing the news that she's somewhere beaten and battered. "What a small world we live in," he says, sighing a dismal whiff of air and clasping his hands together. His voice shrinks into a timid croak when he continues, "How bad was it?"

"...I didn't know a broad so little could bleed so much. I don't know, man. All I could see was that she probably had a concussion. She was passed out the whole ride."

"Where did you take her?"

"Was some barn house north of Broken Arrow. Met her aunt and she took her right in. Seemed friendly enough, anyway." Two-Bit said, shrugging his broad shoulders and lower tooth biting on his lip. "This is fucked. Why would you do that to someone like her?"

"Soda would be grateful you took her to safety," he sighed, incapable of eliminating the image of her battered image conceived in thought, face swelled, that hideous gash trickling blood from her head. What he couldn't tell was that he might've been just as thankful.

"I hope. Just didn't tell him, 'cause..."

"Yeah, I know." Pony knows, and that's because Sodapop doesn't care about a single soul in his shape. Nothing, not even himself... save for the drugs. Never in a thousand years would the green-eyed brother think he'd give more of a damn for Bonnie Perez than him.

The evening crawls with an impenetrable silence hanging in the air—the sound of water droplets patting against a shower curtain a monotonous drone, seemingly on eternal repeat. Only, that was until a friend and a kid brother understood something had gone wrong with Darrel Curtis.

* * *

 

Aunt Margaret's soft humming is resounding in the little room, grizzled locks draped over her shoulders as she tends to the battered girl sprawled over the bed. The room is small but no less warm, both from the heat emanating from a nearby fireplace and in the homey presence of the old woman at Bonnie's beside.

"I'm gonna visit your mama, honey," Aunt Marge announces, breaking the almost silence and jerking the young girl from a state of half-sleep. She sets a wad of fresh gauze upon the nasty gash on Bonnie's forearm, "Can't help but think she's awfully lonesome, you know?"

"I'll go with you," Bonnie sighs, grimacing at the pain still nagging at her bandaged abdomen. Aunt Marge pauses and shoots an objective stare, provoking a frown on the short-statured girl's face. "Please. I don't like the nursing home, but I haven't been there in weeks."

"You're in no condition, babe. Get some rest for once, will you?" she replied, shaking her head. But it's obvious that her expression springs from a feeling a great distance apart from anger—in delicate eyes and a mighty urge to provide what's best. "Tell me, was it lilies that she put in your hair?"

"No, they were tulips—the yellow ones," she says, lips thinned into a line on her face and it's difficult not to act on such a bittersweet memory alone. With those retrospections in the distortion of childhood, nevertheless brighter with a gorgeous mother beside her in the outdoors, gentle voice unforgettable and sunshine glistening on a youthful face.

All those moments had been stripped from reality too short, but it was said nothing good could last. It was little time before Bonnie was abducted by the devil, following in her mother's fate. Except, it wouldn't be her who hadn't had everything taken away from in her a split second and never to come back. She wishes it could've been her instead if it had meant replacing the mother trapped in a life she couldn't experience.

"Well, you know my sight's gettin' bad. Tell you what—get some sleep, and I'll bring you to the nursery so you can point out them tulips for me. I'll let you give your mom a visit." and soon, there's an aura of melancholy so strong it's suffocating. 'Cause while neither of the two could stomach it, both knew no matter the effort, momma would never be brought back. "...That poor thing. It ain't fuckin' fair. I should've have hesitated to put a bullet to his brain."

And in a spell of sleep that trickles into her consciousness that gets her eyelids slipping shut, she can't see for herself the tears that flow from her aunt's eyes. Yet that didn't mean she couldn't hear it all, but she could rest knowing that life was unfair. It was all she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment. :3


	33. XXXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you will enjoy this slightly longer chapter just as Christmas comes right around the corner. Happy holidays, everyone. I've gotta give a warning for this chapter, particularly to how it alludes to abuse and pedophilia. Nothing too graphic, but I understand that having some sort of note before diving is necessary for anyone who is uncomfortable reading.

"Hey, Two? get a washcloth, will you?" Ponyboy Curtis calls out from the open crack of the bathroom door. But his gaze can never wander too far from the shape before his tired eyes. "Dammit, Dar," the green-eyed brother sighs, slumping into the drywall behind him.

Ponyboy never anticipated that in a million years he'd have his towel-covered and unconscious big brother wrapped in his arms, stomach rolling in anxiety for the minutes that slip without those green-blue orbs coming to view. Two boys had found him through the stuffy fog of steam, behind the curtain sprawled on the shower floor, eyes closed and skin a thousand shades paler than when they'd last seen him.

Worry was eating away at him like bacteria on a rotting corpse. He'd been too distracted with another brother to consider the sound of the other falling to the floor. But if he could linger onto the guilt, then perhaps he wouldn't lose his cool and burst in tears knowing there were two brothers in bad shape. Hence he sat on the tile floor submerged in guilt, on the lookout for any sign that Darrel Curtis was coming back to life.

When the sound of footsteps approaches the door, Two-Bit Mathew's voice follows. "Why? He still ain't come around yet?" he asks, shaking his head at the pitiful sight of Darry on that bathroom floor. "I think it's time to carry this man to bed."

"No...I-I don't know what's wrong with him. Should we take him to the hospital?"

"Give him some time, Pone. Just relax, I'm sure he didn't hit his head. I think the stress got to him," he answers, tossing a pack of cigarettes and his lighter at him without warning. It makes the nineteen-year-old almost turn green in envy to see Two-Bit never lose his resolve in a situation like this, and it's just another reason he's blowing smoke tonight.

"I don't know what to believe at this point," he croaked, bringing a tiny flame to his cigarette and peering into the ceiling above. "I'm...I'm real worried. It's already been 'bout ten minutes and we don't know how long he's been out."

"Well, quit your worryin', 'cause I think he's starting to wake," Two-Bit asserts, ready set to help the predicament as he slips to the floor beside the troubled boy. They watch in silence as Darry's untangles from unconsciousness, the features on his face contorting in pain. The icy eyes that unfold are glazed over in disarray—bloodshot from what can only be hoped as a simple case of exhaustion.

"You passed out, Dar," Two-Bit sighs, and it's the first time in a long time his tone isn't rough on the ears, tied in with a gentleness that no one could've envisioned from a rowdy man like him. "How you feelin'?"

"Pone?" he whispers, his stare searching for a little brother he can't seem to spot. Instead, he finds him through his hand intertwined with another. Darry's dying to tell he doesn't want to bring worry, but he's never felt more exhausted in his life, feeling just as much as a walking corpse as he looks.

"Yeah, Dar?" Pony's voice echoes in the tiny bathroom as he brings the cold washcloth to his forehead, hit with relief to see how Darry's muscles loosen in his cradle—it's the first notion of okay he's seen all week. "I got you, Dar. I got you."

As the early hours of dawn shift the gloom of night into shades of gray, Darry's eyes have slipped closed, overthrown in exhaustion, and it's only a matter of time before his little brother follows. And there two brothers lay, pacified into to a dreamless sleep to the sound of relentless rain, uncomfortable in less than desirable surroundings but nevertheless whole, so long they had each other.

* * *

Bonnie Perez doesn't breathe easy in Aunt Marge's old pickup truck, her pair of short legs bouncing up and down, nervous form writhing in the shotgun seat. Rain pours from the skies of the countryside, beating down upon the windows and muddying the view of dirt roads ahead. Margaret's eyes hold a steady gaze on the road, steering wheel seized with a fixed grip of wrinkled hands. Her expression's sulking in sorrows, shoulders slumped and outcast eyes threatening to spill a river. Bonnie's vision washes over in sudden waves of dizziness as the reality around her shifts into a spinning whirlwind, threatening to bring up the contents of her stomach onto the bouquet of yellow tulips held tight against her chest with each nauseating bump on road.

The roar of the engine might've been booming, but Aunt Marge's voice had always been the first thing she could hear. "Sorry I got so worked up, Bon," her voice pours into the black hole of silence that's swallowed up the small space of the truck, her eyes darting a troubled stare to the girl beside her yet to recover from one hell of a beating. "Ten years haven't done much healing for me, you know? It's hard seein' your mama—my little sister—like that. It never changes."

"Don't apologize for nothin', auntie. Guess I didn't know her the way you did. Neither can I stand looking at mama in that nursing home. We're just doin' it for her, aren't we?"

The corners of her lips lift into a smile more melancholic than any frown could get, fighting to contain the wetness that prickled at the corners of her eyes. "Damn right, honey. She was the sweetest thing, but by God, was she sick in the head. Minny did all she could to try and raise you just right since the day it was found got was knocked up," she said after a minute, voice rasping but glimmering with a happier, greener view of the past.

"I miss her," is all that rises from Bonnie's throat, her head lodged between her arms and eyes sunken to the floor—afraid to behold the desolate look on her aunt's face and the reality that might as well be hell on earth. "I-I fucking miss her."

Minny Perez wasn't coming back, and there weren't enough words to speak for a miracle to come upon the Perez family. Bonnie clasped to a thin wire of hope, closer to snapping with every year of no change to her mother's condition. A persistent vegetative state was what the doctors called it. But all a daughter could see was suffering in her mother's eyes—how there was someone in there, forever confined to the devil's abuse so as long as her chest rose and fell.

She'd always questioned what was gleaming so bright in her mother's unfocused eyes: it was the reflection to the flames of hellfire. Bonnie wished mama's lungs gave out the day the incident went down, brought down to her knees in prayer, begging in silence that it would come.

It would've saved them all, though it seemed God had different plans for her—it was to grow old in appearance, to waste away but never experience. In her baby girl's dark brown eyes, He was just as evil as the devil himself.

"Don't we all?" Margaret sniffled, "She was so beautiful before..." she trailed off, clearing her throat. "Gramma could do her hair so nice. She always wore the nicest dresses. And I'm here waiting for you to try one of 'em on."

"I promise, auntie. I...I..." Bonnie's words stumble and while there's no deception in her words, her sentence can't come to a halt. It all comes rushing in like a flash flood, jumping out from a corner of the mind as dark as the time of night Peter Perez came to haunt.

Her growing figure slithers like a snake in her mother's arms, attempting to wiggle out of any crevice that can set her free from the embrace. There's no place for her in the dining room of Christmas Eve—of the scent of booze on drunken relatives as distant as strangers and sight of holiday foods that didn't stay in a fussy eater's mouth for long. It was the year 1961, with a little girl clothed in an itchy wool dress having to face the glee of Christmas spirit only the adults could dig. Bonnie Perez was having none of it, and those loud shrieks that came from her mouth at the table told more than her vocabulary ever could.

It was also in the year 1961 when the family was dirt broke, not even a single penny in the bank. That meant no gifts to come under the big tree, and Bonnie couldn't appreciate that—or the warmth of mother's arms that made her all too sweaty. She didn't know of the imminent tragedy that would have her sobbing hours later, pleading for her to be held again. And little did she know those hours would turn into years.

_"Stay still, hunny. You and mama gotta be here," her mom's begging, face blanched and troubled eyes stirring. There was something off, and that was called anticipation. Only for her little girl, she never stopped smiling, rouge lips pecking at the top of Bonnie's forehead staining her skin._

_"I heard Pete was comin' home from the oil rigs overseas tonight. That right, Minny?" comes a gravelly voice from across the dining table and trail of pricey cigar smoke that follows. "I'm telling you, my damn brother is the only thing keeping you guys above the water."_

_"Yeah...He's coming," she mumbles, hushed voice trembling with horror. Her hands, damp from sweat begin clawing at her daughter, afraid to let go thinking of the man who'd destroyed life for both of them. "And shut your trap, grandpa. We're all doin' our part 'round here," and with that, she's pouring wine into her glass all the way to the brim._

_The old man scoffs, "Whatever you say. Just keep that kid quiet. She's cute and all, but I don't want her crying to spoil our dinner."_

_But that's not what sends dinnertime to hell. It's when moments later, there's a knock at the door that has mother frozen the second the sound reaches the room. "I love you, honey," she whispers into Bonnie's ear, pulling her to the floor and bolting to the kitchen without a glance back at her frazzled daughter. Then, it all clicks when she sees whose stepped in the premises. But there's nothing in her to scream and shout anymore—little Bonnie is defeated, fixed to the spot where she stands with a something that threatens to spill between her legs._

_When a pair of arms takes her from behind, she cries out in horror. But to her relief, it's Aunt Marge. "It's just me, silly. Let's watch TV with auntie, hmm?" She gives a slight nod, allowing her to be lead with a hand to the living room._

_But she knows. The screams come before they can ever make it to the destination, and from one moment to the next, they're both rushing to where an altercation has risen: the beginning of the end. In the kitchen, the devil towers over Bonnie's mother, enormous hands wrapped around her tiny neck. She's struggling, her face as red as a tomato as sweat trickles down her forehead—the noise of harmless banter filled with strangled grunts and helpless silence from family members._

_"Peter, what in God's name are you doing?" Marge shrieks at the top of her lungs powerful enough to bring a building down. She rushes to break the fight, but it only earns her a huge hit to the face hard enough to send her stumbling back, stunned and face descending into the depths of the horror that ensues afront her eyes._

_Above all, it's the resonating crack from when her mother goes down, temple smacking upon the corner of the kitchen counter, for which she remembers the most. The vision sizzled into her brain is a beautiful mother on the floor and the blood pooling around her head—sending dinner rising from a little girl's stomach and onto her forest green dress._

_"S-She's not breathing." Aunt Marge whispers from beside the unmoving figure on the floor, hands folded on what used to be mama's chest, and it's the worst few words Bonnie Perez has heard in her life. She's too blinded to care for the noise of cocking gun or the paramedics that swarm the tiny kitchen, obstructing the sight of the mom she's convinced has died in front of her._

_The world's fallen out from beneath her, and all she can do is watch as the beauty in her world collapse..._

As soon as it's sprung, the living nightmare has come to a close. The first thing seen in the real world is the unmoving road ahead, the absence of roar that comes from the engine. What comes next is the wetness that coating her cheeks, dripping from her eyes and a face hovering over her own—those eyes glazed over in concern and brows furrowed.

"M...Mom..." she mumbles, because she can't help but see her in those familiar features—from the tanned skin to the greek nose, those chocolate brown eyes to the jet-black of her locks. But through the chaos in the space between illusion and reality, she doesn't notice the impact of premature aging on the wide-eyed appearance before her.

Bonnie doesn't have a clue. Not until it's aunt Marge's gentle voice that speaks. "Sweets? You gotta come back to me," she soothes, bringing her hands against the tear-soaked skin of her cheeks. And as it all comes to focus, the disoriented girl has only begun to think of the intense queasiness in the pit of her stomach. "I've pulled over. Let's get you some fresh air. You're looking green,"

It's too late to resist the rebel on her insides and as soon as the door by her cracks open, Bonnie's stumbling to the dead grass beside the road and dropping to her knees, heaving and heaving until there's nothing left but bile within to empty, her back shivering under the circular strokes of a hand. Her face is dripping in a mess of snot, tears, and sweat when it's over, head barely able to hold itself up from the effort.

Marge's voice is swimming in the air, soothing her throughout the struggle. It hadn't been the first time she'd come face-to-face with Bonnie's severance from the present. But Bonnie Perez never gave an inkling of worry to the sweetest thing on earth... if she could. "I'm okay, auntie. Let's get a move on," she grumbles, picking her exhausted body from the floor up to a dizzied world. "Don't look at me like that: you've seen this a hundred times. I'll pull through."

"Like hell you are okay. Babe...I knew you weren't prepared for this," she shudders, taking her by the hand for much-needed support on her feet. "Let's go home, now. I'll come by later and give the flowers. There's a nice bed waiting for you."

"Don't I gotta face my fears? Isn't that what you've told me since?"

She couldn't wish more for Sodapop Curtis' swallowing embrace on the shitty bed above the commune, the voice of an enigmatic man easing the pain of the past to its destruction or the valium from his hands swooping in her system. She could've have craved his voice Soda's voice in the atmosphere, those tattooed arms on her warm skin and the scent of maryjane from his breath more than the drugs she practiced. It might've been temporary, but it was the only piece of heaven she could get.


	34. XXXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize this one took so long... let's just say I had my reasons. But yay for another longer chapter!

_She's God: the world doesn't exist without Her, and that's what Sodapop Curtis has yet to discover, lost in his labyrinth of narcotics. Soda's not convinced that there's an escape out there, or if he'll be unbound by the curse. But Bonnie Perez makes the labyrinth worthwhile, transformed into a garden with the scent of her perfume. And the two are there in their pathetic excuse of a home, the room above the commune, rat-infested and scattered with used paraphernalia. He stares in awe as Bonnie counts the dollars on the table one after another, inattentive of the mass of green before her._

_Its filthy money, taken by a man who seems like his time on earth is twice than what it is. Give him some time and he'll be six feet under. More often than not, he won't find an escape out the pit he's dug himself. Or maybe it's a party girl who is soon to become Alice, absent to the rabbit hole she's destined to descend. And it's just a girl, doll-faced and smaller than most the one behind it all, making a living off a downfall._

_"Damn, baby girl. Didn't know that selling a few grams of coke could bring so much cash," Soda says, voice muffled from where a blunt hangs from his lips, dragging a haze of pot into a place where the smell is already overbearing._

_"By God. Didn't know either 'till I started, but four years has only got the stash bigger," Bonnie chuckles, but there's a missing twinkle in her eyes that says she's not satisfied. And when those dark-brown eyes glance up to view Soda, he can't help but burst into cynical laughter. "C'mon. Don't you dare doubt my work."_

_"You sure as hell better be prayin' for forgiveness. I can't imagine you sinning, selling drugs at seventeen to some guy twice your size. Scratch that, three times."_

_Bonnie scoffs, "I only pray for the cash, for my mama and the brothers back home. And I'm not that short. But hey,_ don't _that make me cute?" and as she flashes a grin, both know it's step one of the cycle all over again. 'Cause conversation between lead to nowhere and it was the only way they knew._

_That's when he becomes a fiend, and not for the drugs spread about. But for her, beautiful in that pool of money—an empire she's built herself. Bonnie cues for him to come just a little closer and before she has a chance to blink, Soda's hands are wrapped tight around her waist. "Now ain't that the truth. The man got their fast cars and heaters. Only a matter of time they're kicking down that door. But there ain't a cop in the world that can stop this."_

_"You know me so well. Happy one-year anniversary, Sodapop Curtis. I'm ready," she says, her voice falling from her lips smoother than silk._

_Time slips too fast in paradise, with no boundaries in-between skin and a pair of minds clouded by ecstasy. And before Bonnie and Soda know it, dusk has swooped into the atmosphere. But what they did know was the destination was always here—track marks on their skin, lipstick stains on his jawline and hickeys on her neck. Sweating and panting away, two bodies sticky in-between crisp cold sheets. And there he is, transcending the stratosphere of the high—vision unsteady as newborns and words slurring. They're too high to worry that this is all it comes down to_ : _fucking under the influence and too wasted to think of using the rubber, no less._

_"I love you, darlin'," he mumbles, planting a handful of light kisses against her cheek. And even if he's tripping his way into the rabbit hole, Soda's not sure that's what he truly means. Except she was his world, an angel and a devil in one—no matter whether true love could exist underneath bedsheets, dirty needles and vague conversation._

"Soda?" calls a faint voice from a distance, and there's no doubt in Soda's mind that it's his little brother—green eyes talking to him in words Ponyboy's too hesitant to express. After all, it's the only sound that can get his ears to perk up.

But it's another reminder of two brothers gone estranged. It hadn't been the same since Soda pulled from his embrace. He still swears it's not what it seemed—Pony hadn't been in the mind of Sodapop Curtis, and no one could see the turmoil within. He wasn't quite ready to take the bullets of pity. "I didn't know you were gonna come," Soda says, but his words struggle to escape even if it's comfort that should be washing over him like a tidal wave.

"The doc said you were improvin' and I wanted to see that for myself. Figured by his talk you're awfully lonesome," Pony sighs, his hand finding its place atop his brother's shoulder. "Hell. I just missed you."

"I missed you too, Pone. But ain't so sure 'bout that. Honest." Soda mumbles and though it comes out of him without much strength, it's the longest sentence he's talked since arriving weeks ago.

Pony's heart plummets, because he knows Soda doesn't lie. And in that hopeless look of his and the stillness of his muscles, there's no sign of salvation. Behind it all, there was no doctor or prescription that can save his brother from his self-created limbo. "Okay. Have you been eating? 'Cause if you are, then that's sure as hell improvement to me."

Soda gives a slight nod, but he can't find it in himself to look up. If there's one hope he's got, it's that news can bring his brother—tight-lipped and chagrined—to rest. "Was the feeding tube at first. That shrink told me my body wasn't gonna last. Said he had the right to it or somethin—" and just when he's loosened up, he's noticed the elephant in the room. "Forget about that. Where's Darry?"

Pony takes a moment to find his voice and there's not much power in it—from anxiety to apprehension to just being down in the dumps. He's not about to say their big brother is cooped up at home, sleeping off an awful night of sickness and the stress of a lifetime. "He...he couldn't come today. I'm still waitin' on him so we can have those family therapy sessions. They need to happen, Soda."

"What's up with him?" Soda asks in a monotone that's so robotic and lifeless from Sodapop Curtis that it's enough to yank him, lost in the complexity of his thought, back into reality. And when that big brother looks up, the inanimate stare looking back doesn't just upset Pony. It makes his stomach drop to his toes.

But he's not quite ready to let him face the truth, and that's when the lie starts spilling. "...Darry had to work overtime today. He's fine, don't worry," and while works to mask the truth, it isn't he's worried about: it's the little composure he's got for the sake of him gone unfixed. And the green-eyed boy isn't about to tell that the minute he's out of this place, Pony's stewing over the other at home, sick and out of sorts.

"Pony," Soda mumbles, faltering voice suddenly filled with a sorrow that brings him a flood of blue he can't begin to swim out from. "You're a terrible liar, don't you know?"

"I meant no harm, Pepsi. It's just...Darry hasn't been doin' so well. He's been working so much the exhaustion caught up to him real good. I didn't want to upset you—"

"I'm stuck in this place and you can't even tell me what's wrong with my brother?" Soda squeaked. "He's workin' because of my hospital bills, ain't he? I'm no good to no one, Pony. You oughta think that's why I don't want to be on this earth no more."

"We saved you because we love you. We were scared to death you were gonna die in the truck that day, 'cause you weren't breathin' when they took you in," and that's when the wetness starts tickling the back of his eyes. This time around, he can't give an inch of effort trying to swallow up the cascade of salty tears. And the next time, Pony's voice trembles, "You're here struggling, and I can't take you home. Deep down I know that Darry wouldn't be here on this earth if it happened."

"Please no," Soda begs and the air in his diaphragm is choked straight out of him, hands clutching at his hair so hard his scalp bleeds. When his body pitches back, he hasn't yet realized his body has dropped to the floor. Not even the coolness of the tiles beneath shake him out of it. "God no. Don't love me, Pone."

Pony's head is heavy as concrete as it spins at the sight of his brother and the heart-stopping bawling that take all the force his weak body can give. In the midst of it all, all a little brother can do is watch, pray in silence that somewhere out there mom and dad are watching over. And in that head of his, he's crying out just as loud as Soda.

It's only until his painful cries begin to die down, and when the hospital staff swarm his brother 'until his teary vision is blocked of him is when he makes the move, but the thought of the food in his rolling stomach is enough to nearly lose the contents of his stomach then and there. With limbs quaking with such a force, Pony can hardly snap himself out of the position he's in. "Shhh," he whispers, slumping down to his knees beside his brother as the sea of strangers around him fade. "Please don't leave us now, Soda."

He can only feel complete again when Soda settles his face into his shoulder, followed by the mix of snot and tears that seep into his t-shirt. It's just him and Soda in the world in his hold, his frail brother's trembling figure against his own chest threatening to burst in another wave of fresh tears. Pony can't hear the phrases of the noisy, tedious drone of nurses that speak into his ears and he's not about to find out. "Leave me and my brother alone, for God's sake," he sneers at them all, his tone bitter because he means it.

As two boys cry their hearts out on the floor, there's a sign in an older brother's ugly cry that maybe Soda hasn't lost himself in the pain. He's not just crying out of the blue as Pony's so often approached, and even as his heart squeezes tight at the sight of him, relief like a tidal wave is showering over him. Soda still had a heart, and with that, there was still a chance for hope. And Pony was going to fix every piece of him that needed fixing.

* * *

Bonnie should be excited that she's seeing her mother. But there's nothing thrilling about seeing her mother, a vegetable, vision unsteady as a newborn's and body sprawled out on a bed with the machines that keep her always near, to never speak again save for the moans her body gives. There's the bouquet of yellow tulips in-between her hand, but neither a daughter or big sister expected any kind of acknowledgment from her. They're just trying to revive dead memories, and possibly her, too.

Minny Perez is alive but not living. Every doctor has told that she's got no sense of awareness, that times can just pass out of her grasp and she'll never see it coming. God knows what goes on in her brain, and Bonnie never wants to know of the hellfire behind those eyes and aging face. She can't bring genuine hope that she's going to come back after ten years of nothing. But she can hope that there's no suffering...for sanity's sake.

Aunt Marge never fails to look troubled during their visits. But this time, there's something stirring around in her brain—something she's bursting at the seams to tell. And to confirm the suspicion, she finds that Aunt Marge is about to salvage her from the painful silence once again. "There's something important I need to tell you, babe. That's why I offered you a ride here, after all," Marge swallows, eyeing the figure beside her that was once called little sister.

Bonnie's never needed a hit of weed more in her twenty-one years of life. "Yeah?"

"You know the reason why your ma's here is 'cause Pete made the choice to pay for this whole hospice care thing? Well, now that he's burning in hell, there's other...options for her."

Bonnie's jaw drops, and she's putting a hand on her aching heart and backing away like it's a slap to the face, stunned when she gasps, "You mean...kill her?"

"I talked to the staff while you were off selling grass to wackos. Went through some legal stuff, said to me that she could be taken off the tube feedings..."

Bonnie's brows furrow in a whirlwind of frustration, but her heart knows it's the best thing that can happen to her mother. Hell of a lot more merciful than leaving her to waste her life here 'cause was all in Pete's plan. "But auntie, that'd be starving her to death..."

"Let's be real, honey. She's long gone: just look at her. She won't feel a thing." she shakes her head like she's begging God for another alternative—a miracle, by chance. "...I know I've always told you since the day Minnie fell into a coma that we should have some hope. But I never believe it. I knew she was gone the second I saw her fall to the floor."

"Oh, Marge. You didn't have to give it all up for me...you had other things to care about at the time, did you? You were going to start your own family—"

"Your mama would've wanted it. You were just scared back then. So scared that I went to the store and blew off all the money I got workin' the cotton so I could buy you a teddy to keep you company—sure as hell deserved somethin' for Christmas. You couldn't have understood. And I found out I couldn't conceive, anyway."

"I'm sorry for all of us. For mama, for you, for David and the other two..."

Margaret reaches out, placing a gentle hand over the fingers that are already entangled around her mothers—the only way the three can come together. "It's such a shame your brother couldn't meet her. We were so nervous that he wasn't going to make it, your ma being knocked up and all when it happened. He came... three months early. Barely a pound big. But David came out okay. And that's all we could've wished for, hmm?"

"Yeah. Guess we gotta be thankful for what we have instead of wish for what we don't..." Bonnie shrugged, clutching at her mom's limp hand a little tighter than the last. She's already planned tonight to wear red lipstick and a dress, and it's to do it for mama.

"Looks like someone's been listening to me after all these years. Words of wisdom, I should say," Marge jokes, cracking a smile but allowing it to fade the second after it emerges. "No. But really, this world is beautiful, honey. We just gotta get over all of this. With time."

Bonnie knows the world beautiful—she's seen Sodapop Curtis and felt his glory. And then there's her favorite auntie, three little brothers who have been with her thick and thin. Her kin. But asides from that, it seems the world is in black and white, a neverending cycle of feening and moments of intoxication that get her higher than God Himself. Tragedy hit the Perez clan like a storm, and there wasn't enough rain in Oklahoma to wash the horrors of the farmhouse away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really hoped you enjoyed. Writing has been a struggle for me as of recent due to things in my life at the moment. All I can do is hope it ain't bad. :/


	35. XXXV

One moment Steve's there in a cheap motel room, sitting on the vomit-stained carpet with the stink of liquor on his breath. He's frantic to get out of this place and get home, calling out for Soda but he's so wasted there's no way he's getting off this floor. And when four walls of tarnished wallpaper warp into a jungle before his unsteady eyes, for a minute he's lost himself in the middle, screaming until his lungs give out—loud enough to dull the Vietnamese shouts advancing closer and closer.

And In the next, Steve's getting a taste of metal, feeling the sticky wetness of sweat trickle down his hairline and hands tremble in the grip of a gun lodged between his teeth. Nausea crawls in his belly, the world around him tilts and whirls and it seems like death's gonna warm over any moment. He wants to end it right there, and he knows that it's only the slight movement of a finger away. The man's crying out like a wounded animal, scared of nothing but himself. Maybe this was the way it was meant to end. It was typical of Steve Randle to run away from his problems and never look back, and living was the worst of them all.

The only thing that comes is a click—then, a deafening silence that can only exist in a place like Hell. Steve snaps out of it once he realizes that by some goddamned curse, it's empty and the minute he does he's grown numb from head to toe, grip loosening and that alcohol-filled head of his isn't quite all there to hear the loud thud where the pistol drops to the floor. Black dots form in his vision, and as the world's falling from beneath him he wheezes for a breath of air he can't catch. And as everything around him withers to nothing, he's thrilled to be drifting away from the reality that torments him. But in the end, it's never the peace he's searching for.

x

The tears are still fresh on his face after Ponyboy's left and not a trace of his goodness is left in this godforsaken place. Soda's subdued after the outburst and he's thankful for the dose of valium, but the anxiety that grips his gut hours after that moment in recent past is what keeps those fresh memories living, playing like a broken record. He finds himself staring at the blank walls, his head swirling with unwanted thought, unwilling to leave his little hiding place beneath hospital sheets.

Soda knows staring at a wall and falling into a pit of nothingness wasn't gonna save him. He's hardly noticed the figure of the doctor when he steps in, silhouette creeping up towards him in the peripheral view. "Mr. Curtis, I'm afraid you're out of time for now. Time for therapy," Mr. Brown speaks, and with that's he knows its time for the shocks meant to unscramble what is scrambled up in his noggin.

As anticipated his limbs are frozen stiff, vacant stare focalized to the floor, incapable of finding the strength to get a view of the doctor's middle-aged complexion. He doesn't think he'll ever get on his feet again, consumed with tiredness that no sleep could fulfill. Soda's eyelids slide closed, but sealing reality doesn't prevent it from trickling in. Mr. Brown's voice comes again, this time a tad bit softer. "I understand you might not want to get out of bed today. But look at it this way: this is just another step to getting your depression treated and getting you out of here."

But any attempt to move even a fraction of his body leaves Soda depleted of the force he's not sure exists. Henceforth he stays huddled up in those sheets, still as a mannequin beneath the thin material, the hollow space within draining everything that was once him.

And the doctor never fails to accept his submission, to gets nurses flocking to his beside and those flaccid limbs stretched without resistance, and from one moment to the next they've got him on a stretcher, the patient's eyes glancing back but not quite looking. Soda doesn't even take in the stiffness of the table underneath or the sting from where the IV is pierced into his vein. And as the sedatives take him to oblivion—sight blinded by flaps of skin that can't help but bind the space in-between—he doesn't bother if he wakes up with the sun next morning or to nothing at all.

x

" _Auntie, when can we go see David?" she asks the tight-lipped aunt who's been in her sight ever since her mama had been robbed from her that Christmas night. Said the other day she quit her job, that the company's wages are too low and that David's gonna need someone to take her place._

_Bonnie is seated in the plastic chair beside her, a naive mind puzzled by the nervous expression that's clung to her face since it was announced her baby brother was born, confined to the walls of the NICU._

_"The nurses are finally bringing him out the incubator, sweetie. But he's gonna have to spend some more time here 'cause he's so little." Aunt Marge glumly answers, sinking into her seat and rising back up a mere seconds later in a nervous fit._

_Bonnie's eyes widen, and she's brought out of the trance of sleepiness after being in the hospital for what seems like centuries. And she's starting to suppose meeting her brother won't be as cheerful as she thinks. "Why? Is there something wrong with him?"_

_"Yes, and that's because he was born too early. You'll understand what I'm talkin' about when you're older. Be a little quieter when you're in here, got it?" and before the little girl has the turn to reply, a pack of nurses begin pooling in, one of them cradling a little bundle of blankets in her arms._

_"Ms. Perez? Here's baby David. He's a very fragile baby, so you must be careful with him," she says and that's when Aunt Marge's eyes light up for the first time in months and they're fixated, arms reaching for the tiny baby with tubes sticking in and out of him and a tiny a blue hat on his head. And once he's against her, he's just about swallowed by Marge's chest, tiny mouth letting weak cries for the world to hear._

_Bonnie's so preoccupied with his impromptu appearance that she doesn't realize that wetness burst from auntie's eyes, a tear or two dribbling onto David's head. "My God, he's so beautiful. I gotta call grandma and the rest soon just as possible—" and with that, she turns to her and blubbers, "David's beautiful, isn't he? Looks just like his mama..."_

_It's those last few words that are enough to get her vision murky the tears of her own because she knows it's true._

Ten years have passed and he's a breathing, walking like the rest at school, bursting at the seams with energy, cheerful with an unceasing smile and greenly naive to the tragedy that plagues the Perez family. And every member who gives a hang about him thank the Lord every day that he has yet to ask where his mother has gone. There was no bringing back to explain a pain like no other. 'Cause only in memory could it come.

Bonnie's thinking about Minnie, David and the next time she's gonna get a fix as she wipes down her newly-born niece in the sink filled with warm water, little hands stretched out and blue eyes searching. And when she gives a toothless smile, she can't help but think of the petite infant that was once David.

Just like that she hears him come running from the porch doors, shoes caked with mud, leaving a trail of filth on the wooden floor. "Dammit, David. How many times I gotta tell you to wipe them feet before you step in here?"

Sorry, Bonnie. But forget about that: I'm booooreed," David whines, his big eyes pleading as he tugs at her sundress, staining the white fabric that was once Minnie's dress brown...talk about disrespect if he hadn't known better.

"Bonnie sighs, "Why don't you go pet the new puppies? Or take care of the pigs? I'm kind of busy here," and though it takes a bit more noise from him, Roy has come to save her: the eldest brother and the father of this child she bathes, twice her size, burly and sun-tanned from his days of being a demolition worker.

It's needless to say he'd been frazzled since Paige had been born—each day it took him hours to get him work clothing off after he'd come home, recently introduced with the gift from God in the sink covered in suds. And while everyone else had come to grips with the fact that the baby mama was a deadbeat, he was too distracted by the baby to notice. "Thanks for taking care of her tonight, Bonnie. Well, I gotta get this kid entertained before he drives us more insane than Paige cryin' at night."

"No problem, Roy. Don't let him get to you, though," the twenty-one-year-old teases, but the void underneath her smile screams at that something's missing in her life, and she damn knows it's Sodapop Curtis.

In the time that follows everything's going right— there's joy in giving her niece love, showering her with kisses and compliments until she can't take the mushiness. But soon enough she's itching for narcotics in secrecy, the addiction that's ready to take over her life and all the good in it. And Bonnie's about to learn that sometimes, it couldn't be concealed as easily as a gun.

It's that side of her that unwinds out in the open and to the innocent child in her arms as she's wrapping picking Paige up from her bath and swaddling her a towel, indulging herself in the casual banter that made up most evenings. Suddenly it's the color red that's appeared eyesight and before she can realize what's happening, blood comes spilling like a waterfall.

But it's not the first time. Bonnie brings a hand to her face as warm blood spills from her nose and scrambles to get somewhere alone—there's no will in her tonight to face the disappointment on those familiar faces. Except it had always been Aunt Marge to know what's gone wrong, and one turn the girl makes has her gaping into that blood-stained face and those brown eyes glistening with shame and tears.

Bonnie's expression falls sullen and there's nothing left to say to a soul as the family around her shoots ruthless looks like bullets towards the evidence of her drug abuse. She swallows hard, rooted to her spot on the floor. "I-I didn't mean—"

"It's alright, Bonnie," Aunt Marge soothes but the tone of her voice and that sigh let loose screams there's nothing okay about what's before her eyes. "...Look, I'll take care of her. How about your shower and get to bed, hmm? It's been a long day for you."

The weight of this lousy day has dropped like lead and so she's submitted. And when Bonnie's walking through the halls to take shelter from the rest more than anything else, the junkie swears she hears Margaret speak in the distance and she's saying "God bless that wonderful girl's soul..."

But her heart gives a pang knowing no one could save her but herself, and that the God watching over must be against this sinful family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


	36. XXXVI

Some days were better, brighter than the others in the psychiatric hospital. Nevertheless, Sodapop Curtis's sense of time had been tattered to shreds—for him, it seemed as if the days bled into another as he wandered so far into the void that was his mind that reality had become a pinprick of light in the darkness. And in the few moments when Soda could come up for air, his memory was but a thousand fragments—bits and pieces difficult to piece together as they had been post-coma. It hadn't been until after the third session of electroshock therapy and under the influence of prescription pills that he realized the floodwaters were diminishing.

Dr. Brown's voice was no longer a distant voice when it went on about his improvements, instructing his limbs to flex and grasp. After being limp for so long, Soda's arms trembled with a force he hadn't expected—from spending a week comatose to being bedridden in the psychiatric unit: it had just been a different place to succumb into darkness. His days of immobility were coming to a close... but it hadn't meant the battle was won.

It was in the hours of early morning as Soda rose from a dreamless sleep, blinking the sleep out of his eyes when she'd emerged and come forth as beautiful as the time he'd last seen her. Bonnie Perez didn't need to lift a finger to look breathtaking but this time her image was a reflection at something more sinister—face blemished with fading bruises and with bags under her eyes more profound than they'd ever been, brown-eyed gaze sunken to the tiled floor as fingers rubbed against her temples.

Soda's chest swelled with worry but his mouth was clamped shut, watching as Bonnie's chest heaved with a heavy sigh, placing feminine hands on her belly carefully as to not harm whatever was within. And with that, he knew it was time to speak up no matter how tough it was these days. "Bonnie?" he rasped but there was no response from her as she drowned in the depths of thought, too far down to hear what comes from the surface. "Bon-Bon?"

And that's what it takes to break her trance like a bucket of ice water: the nickname that annoyed her the most. Bonnie's head snaps towards him and in the darkness in her eyes now belonged a light. "Hey, you're awake," she whispers, hand reaching out to slip her fingers around his for the first time in weeks.

She cracks a smile but it's painfully obvious that it doesn't reach her eyes, and that's when Soda knows something's not right with his girl. He lifts himself from the bed and gives her hand a tight squeeze. With the other, he reaches out to brush his fingers on the bruises along her cheek and his breath hitches. "What happened to my Bonnie?"

Bonnie swallows the lump in her throat before speaking. "...Another deal went wrong 'bout a week ago. It was pretty bad, but this time I got lucky. Could've been a whole lot worse."

"God, baby. I'm sorry I wasn't there," Soda says and he can picture the memory of the last time one of Bonnie's deals went bad—the nauseating smell of her blood, hands tending the gunshot wound in her rib as cries of pain resonated through the commune. And though she'd fallen unconscious soon after those cries still lingered in his head, echoing in the membranes for hours on end.

His muscles are tense when her soft voice comes to offer relief. "Don't worry about it, Soda. My aunt got me patched up thanks to that red-head friend of yours. And this time, no guns involved."

"You talkin' about Two-Bit? Keith Mathews?"

"Yeah. I sure as hell owe him..." Bonnie's says before trailing off and her eyes are fluttering, hands gripping the bed rail when she mumbles, "Sorry, honey...this room's spinnin' in circles."

"Bonnie? You okay?" Soda asks and he darts up with the little strength he's got to stroke her pale cheek, drawing back the wet strands of hair that cling to her sweaty face. But when Bonnie gives a slight nod, she doesn't look better than before and he's not satisfied. "I think you should get back to the commune, Bonnie. I'm alright here by my lonesome—I promise."

"Hey, I ain't leaving you come hell or high water." Bonnie soothes. "I know you were asking me to come sooner or later. Would've come earlier but wasn't feelin' so good the night before and this morning I kept on getting sick. Thought it was 'cause I hadn't shot up in a while, but I did before going to sleep so it must be since I'm concussed."

_A string of bile descends from Bonnie's lips as she spits the last of her stomach contents into the ground. She's concealed behind the home with her knees collapsed on the forest floor, leaning over as another wave of nausea hits—apart from the gathering of members around dying flames, marijuana fumes in the air and LSD in their eyes. Yet when a shadow closes in her peripherals, she knows that there's no way those eyes aren't watching._

_Rose had been a friend since the day the two met two years ago—a toddler on her hip and a son trailing behind as she approached with eyes as bright as the sunshine. Being one of the older members of the commune she was the mother hen for the rest and with that, Rose understood more than any of the souls amongst them...maybe just a little too much._

_With a stifled shout of "Oh, Bonnie!", Rose rushes to her sides and begins rubbing circles on Bonnie's trembling back. "What happened to with you, huh? Tell me what's wrong."_

_"Been throwing up for I reckon a month. I've also been so exhausted these days," Bonnie answers, wiping the cold sweat that collects on her brow and turning to look into her troubled eyes. "Don't look at me like that. Maybe the stress is just gettin' to me, I don't know."_

_Rose's eyes turn stormy and it takes a moment for her to catch her voice. "Okay," she exhales, placing a hand on Bonnie's shoulder and squeezing it tight. The next time her voice comes, it's not the sweet tone she recognizes. "I want you to be honest with me. When was the last time you got your period?"_

_that's when it clicks and when it does time comes to a standstill, the air seized out of her lungs as the world crumbles from underneath her. Bonnie's mind screams but all that passes her lips is a broken murmur: "I really don't remember the last time. But...you're not telling me—_

_"...there's a walk-in clinic over yonder," Rose interrupts before Bonnie's thoughts can swallow her whole, gesturing to the west. "I know people like us avoid doctors like the plague, but I figure you might as well go to make sure. Bonnie—"_

_Before both of them can see it comes another round of sick erupts from Bonnie's mouth and once she's left to nothing but dry heaves, all that eats at her is wondering if this is part of pregnancy or if the thought of carrying Soda's child is too much to stomach. 'Cause the idea of a kid being the child of Bonnie Perez—the most fucked up person she's ever known to walk the earth—pains her more than the bullet that pierced her that very night._

And within the depths of the memory she's drifting in, it's Soda voice that comes to save her—the hands to reach for her from the ocean floor, drawing her back to the surface to keep from drowning. "Is something on your mind, Bon-Bon? Your mama on your mind again?"

"Mhm. It's just been a long couple of weeks. My family's debating if we should take her off life support..." she lets slip and in her mind flashes the sight of her mother as she lies helpless—that image of what's left of her branded in her brain. And not all scars went skin-deep. Bonnie's eyes are swelling with tears when she chokes out, "Then there's my grandma. My aunt Margaret came to tell me early mornin' that she's been forgettin' things for awhile and it don't look good."

Soda's eyes flutter and begin to fall as his head slumps into the pillows beneath. With Soda's everything threatening to fade away, he's clinging to his lifeline—the broken one who needed saving—with all he can. "Bonnie? You'll make it through, I know you will. You're one hell of a girl. Real tough. I love you so much," and this time, he swears by God he believes his word.

* * *

Ponyboy had been wrong to think that things would fall back into place once Steve Randle returned. 'Cause the second he'd laid eyes on that drunk at the doorway covered in his own vomit—hands ready to catch him before he fell to the ground unconscious—he knew the breaking point would hit sooner or later. Some things, you couldn't survive on your own. And he couldn't have been more grateful for Two-Bit Mathews, the savior of this little family. And when he'd rushed off to the bathroom to let the tears and with nothing to stop the surge, Two-Bit had come running after him, his knees sinking to the room on the floor beside him.

"Kid? I've got the guy settled for now. He's resting on the couch, still out like a light. You should've trusted me when I said we wouldn't have to tell Soda that his best friend's gone. Steve's better than that," he whispers to the sobbing figure at his side, bringing a hand to lift Pony's chin. "Ponyboy, look at me. He's going to be alright."

"I don't know what to do, Two. Darry needs to go to a doctor to check out his cough and there's no way I'm lettin' Steve alone. I..I.." he trails off and lets out a choked sob, curling in on himself tighter.

"Take deep breaths and stop working yourself up. It don't make things better for either of them to put weight on your shoulders where it don't belong. Let me take responsibility for them; I'm beggin' you."

"You're droppin' the pounds again. If you ain't gonna take care of yourself, you won't be in any better condition than Darry. We all know Superman has his limits," Two-Bit sighs, his face slackened. "Steve's a tough case. But I can't let you kill yourself worryin' over them."

"I'm sorry for this, Two."

"Nothing to be sorry for. Now, Let's get you in bed with your brother 'cause that's where you belong. I don't think you've felt a bed since Saturday night," and his voice is all whispers as he guides Pony's to his feet and his hand grips Two-Bit's shoulder when he begins to sway on them.

"Two-Bit..." Pony whines, his eyes wide-open in sudden alarm as the color bleeds out of his skin, his face as a white as a sheet and lungs strained with heavy breaths when he mumbles, "I-I don't feel so good."

"Calm down. You just stood up too fast," he says, taking Pony's limp arm and wrapping around his shoulder. "Just lean on me, man," Two-Bit says, and slowly as the color in cheeks comes again, they make it to the destination. The sleeping brother—whose expression can only be peaceful in his dreams—doesn't even stir as the youngest gives way, sacrificed to the mattress. When his eyelids drop, no more is there a glimpse of those green eyes for a second time.

"Y'all got a call from the hospital while you were asleep, so I answered it. Turns out Soda's been responding to treatment. He ain't out the woods yet, but it's sure good to know he's doin' better."

"I'm just waitin' on the day we can take him home," he slurs and through the oncoming sleep that's got strength crumbling, he can feel the hole in chest fill and that whatever day it might be, it's coming fast. Reality turns a haze before it's no more and little does he know of the smile on his face as he slips under, swept up by the tides of exhaustion.


	37. XXXVII

When afternoon arrives in the town of Tulsa, those familiar gray clouds come rolling in, and it's not long before the gang finds themselves in the wake of a howling storm, taking shelter from a gray sky that pours in rain and rattles with lighting. Inside the Curtis house are two sleeping brothers, dead to the racket outside that shakes the foundation of their home. And it's Two-Bit Mathews who keeps vigil over the rest—for the two out of three Curtis brothers down and for the friend on the couch riding out a hangover from hell.

With Steve Randle sick and out of sorts, there would be no answer to the mystery of his whereabouts, of his eight days missing in some distant Oklahoma town. But it was no secret that he'd reached his nadir with the force of rock-bottom hitting hard, and there he was, trapped again in the claws of alcoholism after nine sober months. The worst months of his life spent fighting the war at home—watching his best friend stumble into his brothers' home so high he could touch God, scarred by track marks and scabs like bullet wounds to Soda's skin.

Steve doesn't remember much, except for the bitter cold of a pitch-black night and the glare of hazy street lights crawling across his sight. Lonely and desperate, he'd be damned if he didn't remember that tiny bar at the corner of a street or the sting of liquor in his throat, drawing him into a state of mind too insatiable to resist. And with every picture of Soda that flashed in memory came a plead for another one. A series of days had passed in a blur, boozing it up and sleeping with prostitutes in the passenger seat. But no matter how drunk, he could remember the longing to go home, back to his best friend when he'd swore he never wanted to see the pain in those brown eyes again.

'Cause fuck it, the war was never in Vietnam. The war was right there in this town, and making his way downtown with his best friend and signing up was the best decision he'd ever made. Steve had no regrets leaving everything behind, but the biggest one in his twenty-three years of life was bringing his best friend with him. Soda's heart didn't go hard like his muscles, but whatever went down in 'Nam stayed in 'Nam. That whatever sent him falling—an addict stumbling in dark alleyways and living among hippies, fighting for a cause he didn't believe in.

And now back at the closest thing he's ever had to home—head pounding and stomach pulling—he knows exactly where he needs to be. He needs a shower and some company, a reason to live beneath one, tearing roof.

"Glad you're back, Steve," Two-Bit says from beside him, cracking a tired smile as he stares over his lying figure. It's not the first time he's said it, but it doesn't mean any less. "But that smell...think you're up to take a shower and stop the attack on my senses?

Steve's world spins as his vision turns gray, and it's a friend's voice that keeps him above the surface, just floating. It's a while before he answers, his voice strained from all the past mornings spent expelling a stomach full of booze. "Sounds good. Are the guys awake yet?"

"Don't think so, sounds like they didn't get any sleep last night. Pony got worked up and Darry was hacking his lungs out," Two-Bit's shaking his head and his deep-set eyes lose their focus when he lets out a sigh. "I wouldn't recommend going into Soda's room if I were you."

"Darry's sick again?"

"Mhm. Been working double shifts and only gets time off on Sundays. It took me and Pony some convincing to get him to take a break off work this week 'cause he's in no condition."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Steve mutters and soon, all that's left to be heard is the huff of air that comes from his nose. "I'm telling you, that man should use his head one of these days."

Two-Bit scoffs and his body shoots up with a dry laugh. His tone is hushed, an angry flame ignited in his gaze when he swears below his breath. "I would be sayin' a word if I were you, Stevie. I mean, come on man—"

"My business ain't your damn problem, Two-Bit. Go worry about your ma or someone else at that."

"All I'm saying is for you to get your shit together. Where in hell were you, anyway?" Two-Bit's voice rises like tension in the air and his brows are knit together. "Oh wait, I know. Getting shit-faced in some town while Soda needed you in that hospital? You got any backbone?"

The man's a tiger, about to pounce and ready to aim at his jugular when he shouts, "Shut your mouth or else I'll kick your teeth in!" and as spit flies like venom, a man ought to know that if it's coming from Steve Randle, threats always become reality.

And Two-bit had no chance against the wild animal that was him—unpredictable and running on pure instinct. Two-Bit throws his hands up and yields, retreating. "Fine. But all I'm asking you is to keep quiet for the brothers to sleep. Got it?"

He doesn't get an answer, because Steve doesn't notice his gut is churning until a hot flash reaches over him. And in an instant, he's bolted into the tiny bathroom and his knees crash onto the tiled floor, begging for mercy at the porcelain throne. But it doesn't come, and soon enough, his stomach empties until there's no more and his breath comes in labored gasps. After he spits the last of his nausea in the toilet he leans against the cool wall—sight muddy with tears—the pain of home why he'd tried to blow his brains out in the first place.

It's as still and dark as that very night when he hears the creak of the door opening and footsteps approaching. He's too tired to look up, but it's a pair of hands that raise his chin towards the green-eyed boy before him. "Steve, you damn idiot...Steve..." he hears and as the kid's arms wrap around his trembling body, just for a moment, there's nothing left to cry about. But as quickly as it comes, it's all gone when Pony pats his back and heads for the towel closet.

When he's back, he runs a cloth under the sink and places it on Steve's feverish brow. A few beads of water trickle from Steve's head as he croaks, "What you doin' here?" and it makes Pony beam in a smile, even if the profound shade of purple below his eyes tell that he's dog-tired. With that, the guilt of coming back broken to three spent brothers settles in quick.

Pony lets out a scoff, but there's no animosity in his voice when he speaks. "What am  _I_  doin' here? Sorry about Two-Bit—he don't understand. Soda did that kind of thing, leave for a week and come back like it's nobody's business..." he trails and rubs his temples. "Wish I had at the time."

Steve's fight all but leaves him and in its wake, there's nothing more than ashes as his tears suffocate the fires of rage. "...I'm sorry...I know I shouldn't have come. I'm goin' back home."

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout, man. Just tell us the story one of these days and you're good. Take your time." Pony soothes. "Let's get you off this floor and on the couch. Don't you ever need some company?"

"Thanks, kid." Steve takes an unsteady breath as he shivers on the cold tiled floor, still swallowing the remainders of his nausea. Struggling to find his balance, he mumbles, "How's Superman doin' these days? Heard he was awfully sick."

"Darry ain't doin' too good, but he's gettin' better. After he's over getting sick I'm really thinkin' he needs to get some pretty bartender broad in the sack one of these days." He takes a breath and turns back to the door as if guilty for leaving his sick brother when he whispers, "The news about Soda cheered him up some, though."

"What kind of news are we talkin' about here? Must be good, ain't it?"

"Soda's doing a lot better these days. Recovery's been slow but he's getting there," and as he starts talking, his tense muscles go slack. "Bonnie called earlier today and said she got him eating, for Christ's sake. I haven't seen him put food in his mouth in a long time."

"Bonnie must be ride or die if she's sticking with him. I reckoned she would've left him quick." He shook his head and gave a disgusted stare, shoving his hand between his knees. "Didn't even know of his business until she came here two weeks later you found him..."

"I don't know what she's made of, but I can't be mad if Soda's sober and happy with her. Maybe that's a first." Pony says, rubbing Steve's shirtless back. "Hey, let's clear our minds and go on a drive tomorrow. Let's talk and keep this house quiet. Darry needs his rest."

"Never in a thousand years would I believe I would say this but... I'm down for that."

"Now get some sleep, Stevie. We're here to help you get through all this," and as the green-eyed kid, now a towering young man guides him back on the couch and under the pressure of a warm blanket, he knows the Curtis house is where he belongs—home is where the family was, whether it be blood or brotherly bond.

* * *

 

It's been two hours since the old doctor said those three words and the will to stop the tears hasn't come yet. Bonnie's about to put coke to her nostrils when she remembers that within her body is Soda's child, and that's when the tears pick up their pace, streaming along with the snot that's let run free. 'Cause never in her life had she been more worried for someone's life, for a baby addicted as much as her reckless mother. And aside for the tiniest bump on her belly, there's nothing much to take her eyes off except for the dim glow of the burger joint she's parked outside as rain beats against the window.

Bonnie's hair's already soaking before she steps out of the vehicle and soon the rest of her body follows, drenched in rainwater and freezing in her jeans by the time she makes it to the telephone booth standing lonely against the building. She drops a nickel into the slot and starts dialing, called back to the days that lead to moments like this, oftimes left to the last option. But that last option wasn't a prayer to God.

Seconds pass like hours as the phone rings and when that familiar, old voice hits Bonnie's ears, the last thing she expects to break her heart is hearing her sweet grandma—just diagnosed with dementia—at the end of the line. "Hello? Who's calling this late?"

Her voice is trembling in the freezing air of late evening when she makes her cry for help. "Grandma? Is that you?" Can you get aunt Marge on the phone?"

The moment she hears that once firm voice now frail, and to know grandma Lucy's mind is fading launches her back and deep into a fit of tears. "Yeah, I'll get 'er right away," is all that comes and before Bonnie knows it she's off to wake Aunt Marge, leaving in a state of loneliness more intense than ever.

But the stillness is soon replaced by the sweetest voice she's ever known—the sound of her savior. "Bonnie? I didn't think you would—"

"Auntie, I'm pregnant."

That's when the world stops spinning, when there's nothing else to hear except for a deep sigh and for a moment, there's a silence so painful that Bonnie forgets to breathe. "Okay, just calm down honey. There's no need to cry—"

Bonnie doesn't let her finish those words of false optimism and her voice is hardly above a whisper when she crashes in. "I was at the clinic this evening. They did a blood test and all that..."

"So, is Soda's the dad?  _Please_  don't tell me he's the baby daddy..."

"Yeah, he is," Bonnie answers and she's not sure if that's a blessing or a curse, for a child conceived in the passenger's seat of her car—in love and narcotics. She knew exactly what kind of father Soda could be. "...Um...I don't know what to do. My baby's  _using_ , auntie. My baby is..."

"Please come home to me. I knew you weren't doin' well this mornin'. I figure you must've quit cold turkey as soon as you had an inkling, huh?" Well look, I love you. So that's why I'm asking you to get your ass here so we can figure this all out."

And when she arrives home, aunt Marge stands at the doorway waiting for her, waiting to pull a soon-to-be mother in her loving arms, holding her like Minnie held her daughter as if she knew was coming. Or that it would be the last moment she would ever spend with her; moments before her head smacked against the kitchen counter. And just like that split-second moment, Bonnie's life was soon to change forever.


	38. XXXVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this chapter is underwhelming—I've been busy to the point where most of my free time is spent doing r&r and being too tired to do much else except that. I regret not getting back to writing sooner, so hopefully, I can get my shit together and update more consistently.
> 
> Thank you for for the readers that are still here with me. It means so incredibly much, and for that, it's the reason why I power through everything to write. :)

Bonnie hadn't realized how deep into the night it was until she took in the surroundings of home, met by silence instead of the smoky scent of grandfather's cigars, or the discussion among a game of poker. She hadn't remembered a moment that led up to finding herself neck-deep in bathwater, and there was nothing more vulnerable than being stripped down to bare skin, sobbing to no end. But with sleep shouting her name, there was nothing left to do except close her eyes and sink back, leaving Aunt Margaret to get her clean and comforted. And soon, the only things to be were aunt's lilac perfume wafting in the air and the encircling warmth.

But a relief so sweet can never last for a girl like Bonnie, and halfway between sleep and the waking world, she's dreaming of making love inside her blue Ford with Soda, head whipping back as her love's arms clutch her hair. She knows he's gonna come, and when a moan escapes his lips he doesn't scramble away, letting that warm release rush into her body. That's when the chains break and reality comes crashing down like an avalanche: that she's conceived a child with a mother who couldn't take care for no one, not even herself. Bonnie spurts up, and when she opens her eyes only to get a glimpse of aunt Marge staring in worry, what little composure she's gathered shatters as easily as glass.

"Hey, it's okay," Marge soothes, grabbing a towel out of the rack. She wipes away the tears with her thumb, voice coming as peacefully as ripples on water. "Let's get you outta there."

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." is all that can spill out of Bonnie as she emerges out of the bathtub, sitting on its edge and clutching at the towel that wraps her. All the bones in her body are throbbing, and every part of her brain screams to find it's way back to the commune—just to feel a taste of normalcy. Marge's love and touch might have been the sweetest thing she knew, but when the morning sun would shine, she wouldn't want any of it at all.

"You know, that's the same thing your momma told me when she was expecting Roy. Told her that there was nothin' to apologize about and that we'd somehow make it work," she says, placing a loving kiss on her niece's temple. "Darling, I can't say anything else to you that I didn't tell her twenty-five years ago."

"But I ain't like her, auntie," Bonnie says, and she couldn't have been more correct, because she held no hope in this world as her mom did when it was dangerous for women like them. "Like, was ma on drugs?"

"No, honey, she wasn't an addict. That never meant she..." Marge trails off, sighing heavily. "we didn't know about her schizophrenia then. She was convinced there was something wrong with you and your brothers before y'all were born no matter what the doc told her. Point is, I can't lettin' you destroy herself over this, Bonnie. I'm here to help you get through this, alright?"

"Thanks, Marge. I appreciate it," and when she watches as her aunt Marge's lips curve into a smile, she feels a light grow in her dark soul, and it's to know she's not alone.

"I ain't no mother, Bonnie. All I did was step in for you kids when no one else wanted to do the job. I don't regret quitting my job to raise you, Roy, Will, and David. That was the best decision of my life."

And when most of Bonnie's memories were uncertain, the memory of that night was etched. 'Cause there she was—ten going on eleven years old—with her aunt bathing her in this very tub, somehow holding it together when nobody else could. Then, she would hold on tight to those three children through the darkest night of their life, thunder rattling the foundation of their home, all four left behind as the rest waited for news about her mother. Bonnie knew from that moment on, there was nothing in her power to show how strong her gratitude was. "But it ain't your job to take care of my kid, auntie. You've already done your part."

"Well, if Soda's gonna be a deadbeat like your daddy, then your baby's gonna need folks to take care of her," Marge assures, her arm wrapped around Bonnie as they make their way to the bedroom. "Besides you, there's me, your grandparents, Roy, and hell, even David's on the list."

"But...Paige is already livin' under this roof. We can't afford another baby. Where am I supposed to find the money for the crib and all that?" Bonnie sniffled, voice sharp with worry. She feels her stomach tug at the idea that her trade can be no more, and the chance of her unborn child not having enough food on the table.

Overwhelmed, she closes her eyes and brings hands to her head, breathing heavily as anxiety bubbles in her core. But it's too soon when she's brought back to reality, by waves of nausea and sweat forming on her brow—the reminder that there's a bigger obstacle to overcome, and that it's not just her who has to fight for their life and sanity anymore.

Bonnie eyes open to Marge's hand against her cheek, stroking gently. Her voice is all whispers when she insists, "Hey, we've got some savings in the bank. There's enough room for her in Paige's room, and it would be nice for her to grow up with someone her age, right? 'Cause I've got a feelin' Roy ain't having another one again."

"So you're sayin' it's a girl?"

Aunt Marge smiles, heart bursting when she looks upon her niece. "Just a feelin', dunno about you," and she lingers until Bonnie's limbs begin to relax and the windows to her eyes shut close, giving in to the exhaustion that's consumed her for days. "Well, I think that's enough chatting for you. Get some sleep and call me if you need anything, okay sweetheart?"

"Night, auntie. Love you." Bonnie mumbles, and as the lights of Bonnie's room go dim and with the presence of Aunt Marge gone too soon, she knows they're only getting ready for the rough night to come. While she's fallen deep in dreams about her honey, Marge is wide awake—keeping a watchful eye on her younger brother, waiting for the inevitable to reach her.

xxx  
A few days after Darry's pneumonia diagnosis and being confined to bed, he finds himself at the wheel of his father's old pickup truck, driving the familiar route to the hospital. Foot pressed down hard on the pedal, he's desperate to see improvement in his Soda's condition and to confirm what little he'd understood when his mind was clouded with fever. And at first glance, his little brother seems the same as the last time he'd seen him, sitting alone as other patients play cards and watch TV. Soda's head hung low, the windows to his eyes staring off into nowhere in particular. But all the disappointment melted away, and hope came sparkling like stars when he looked up into Darry's eyes, eventually placing a head on his shoulder and allowing him to wrap around his shoulder.

In a way, those two brothers spoke, albeit not a single word had been said between them in almost a week. After that moment, Darry expected nothing less and nothing more from his brother. It might've not been what the eldest brother wanted to see, but the thought of Soda coming back to life almost brought tears of joy to his eyes, and as he feels him come closer, he knows there's nothing left to pray for. But this time, Darry is granted more than what is asked for in his wishes.

It's a soft whisper of his name that catches him off guard, and it takes him a moment to process the voice he hasn't heard in so long. When he looks at brother his staring up at him, he remembers that sweet tone and just who it comes from. "Darry?" Soda says and this time louder than the last, his voice thick.

"Everything okay, Pepsi? How's it been?" Darry's frantic in his questions but takes a moment to contain himself, though the urgency to solve the shrouded mystery of the psychiatric unit and his brother's state doesn't pass. It never does.

That's when the silence came creeping in, and with that, Darry's excitement fading in its haunting nothingness. And though at that moment it felt like the world had stopped spinning, it would be broken. "I...I don't know how to be okay." Soda mumbles, and ashamed, his eyes and body shift away from his brother.

But Darry doesn't let that happen, placing a hand on Soda's cheek and turning it towards him—speaking in their mother's tone, because it was the most gentle one he knew. "That's alright. Who said you had to know? I'm proud of you for trying, know that?"

"I-I just didn't think I'd be on this earth no more," Soda stutters and he's struggling to let the words out, cut off by a shuddering breath before going on. "When I shot up that day I wanted everythin' to end..."

And his older brother can swear he's never seen the saddest look in his life until this moment—peering at those gentle, brown eyes that melt into sadness and fill up in tears. Soda's face scrunches up in pain before being buried into Darry's shirt, and with each sob that has him shaking, he's pulled in tighter. "Shh, don't you ever say that again. We love you no matter what," he hears and as the soothing whispers come to his ear, he's never been more desperate to not feel a thing again.

It takes a moment before Soda gathers himself together, and his bloodshot eyes again shy away from the world, Darry knows shame fills the empty shell of his brother's soul. "I'm sorry, Dar. I thought it would be better for you and Pony if I wasn't here anymore."

Darry's heart and hands begin to tremble, realizing that every part of his life hangs by a thread—that his brother's fate is what would make or break him. Because if Soda didn't make it through this, then neither would he. "Don't be sorry. You know what, I'm the one who's gonna say it—for puttin' my hands on you and kickin' you outta our house like that. It won't happen again, okay?"

"I know. It's okay, Darry. I listened. All I remember was hearing everything 'round me, and you told me you were sorry. I didn't forget that."

"Thank you for fighting, Pepsi. I just knew you would." His memory wandered to those long nights at the hospital, the look of his brother hooked up to the ventilator, pale and lifeless, and how Pony could never stop believing that he was in there somewhere. In hindsight, Darry wished that he could've been like him too—with just a tiny drop of hope.  
  
"You want me to stay with you?" he asks and even if the only thing Soda does is his nod his head up and down, he feels complete, because there was nothing more he wanted than for his brother to want him back.

Darry's there until the sun descends below the horizon and his brother's energy is no more. There's nothing more like pride to watch him build his strength and to see through his walk and talk, the fragments of who he was piece together. He's also there to watch him take care of himself and make way to bed, but no longer a slave to it—walking, talking, eating—miles away from the condition that took everything from him. But that cloud still hung over, and with it no denying that there was more distance to go and what it meant for family old and new.

 

 


	39. XXXIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life sucks right now and so does this chapter. Regardless...I hope you'll think otherwise and enjoy this one. Please?

It's the first time Pony's stepped foot in Sodapop's room since finding him on the verge of death. It's too painful a memory to the day he'd been so close to losing his brother. It hadn't been only Darry's wheezing chest cough that kept him from sleeping... it had also been this.

It's difficult for him to think that beyond the thin wall that divided him from an older brother, there was a filthy room trashed in every sense of the word. On the floor lay the drug paraphernalia he'd grown familiar in seeing: needles and spoons, rolling papers and prescription pill bottles. The carpet beneath him was torn, the sheets on the bed in disarray from when Darry had yanked Soda—motionless if it hadn't been for his chest heaving as he struggled for air—from underneath them.

And it's that lingering aura from the horror of the event that's got shockwaves running through Pony's body for the second time, legs struggling to hold the weight of his body too weak to make more than a few steps. His chest tightens and what follows is his lungs coming to a sudden freeze. It's as if the oxygen in this room is no more. But the adrenaline is coursing faster than light speed and he doesn't think he'll need it. The atmosphere around him is suffocating and whatever's keeping him going without clasping is a godsend, searching and searching for something to prove that the retreat Sodapop Curtis had built in this tiny home couldn't be real.

But just when the demons are about to run him out is when he sees the golden crucifix on a chain hanging from the nightstand, the same place where tracks of cocaine and a plastic straw remain—the kind of devastation that had struck this family harder than any bolt of lighting could. Soda wore that chain around his neck since the very day mom had placed it in his once tiny hands. Except now, trapped within the walls of the psych ward, wilting like a rose from the inside out.

And suddenly, it made just a little more sense to the boy standing in awe, tears welling in his eyes as they did so often these days for the same reason: his goddamned brother. His lungs choke on the stale air that smells like Soda and just like on the day he'd overdosed, Pony can't breathe. He falls backward onto the bed as sobs wrack through his body and a guttural cry escapes from deep within. So much for keeping himself together in the wake of two brothers in their shape—physically and mentally incapable to the point they'd shattered as quickly as glass.

Pony convinced he's in his lonesome until hearing his brother's harsh coughs from the doorway. He turns and stares through clouded sight to see Darry in nothing more than flannel pants, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Pony? What's goin' on?" Darry croaks, half-shut eyes scanning but still confused. And he couldn't have looked more small, shivering and out of wits.

Darry's about to proceed further into the room when his little brother intersects at the doorway too soon, pushing him to the halls before the sight does damage. Pony wipes his tears with the sleeve, but it doesn't mean the evidence is gone. "Nothing's goin' on. Let's get you back to bed; you're in no condition to be up and movin'."

"But you're cryin'," and to prove it, he wipes a lone tear slipping from his eye. "I heard it from the bedroom and—"

Pony speaks more firmly the next time he speaks, sighing heavily. "This ain't the time to worry about me. You're way in over your head," and when the green-eyed brother leads Darry back to where he belongs, he's disturbed to find no protest, no fight in a guy who had only so much.

As soon as Darry's settled back into bed it seems his lids are too heavy to keep hoisted. He's surrendered to the fight against sleep and before Pony knows it, the opening to his icy blues is no more. And though his breathing softens to a peaceful rhythm he's still whispering to the eldest brother, more to comfort himself than the sick brother before him.

"You're okay. It's just the flu. And if it ain't, I'll call the doc to check you out," Pony's telling himself as he keeps over in vigil. Frustration warms over him to remember he's missing another day of university, but it must've been a duty to keep his brother from declining when he couldn't do it for himself. In deep thought, he remembers the chain in Soda's room in his pocket and sets it on the nightstand. 'Cause if it hadn't meant a thing to him, then with chance it could save this brother.

Time drags from seconds into minutes and soon, the colors of the sky are ebbing away to black as the moon settles into the sun's place. The pale glow that comes radiates through the windows—shining against a pair of brothers longing for peace from a war that had made devastation to their little family.

Moments after one brother goes down it's the other that inevitably follows. As the green-eyed boy succumbs into unconsciousness, little do they or Two-Bit crashed on the couch know that in the reality they've neglected there's a man named Steve Randle stumbling in the driveway vomiting into some bushes, lost in the same town in where he'd been born and raised.

* * *

The barn house was as chilly as the outdoors now that nighttime had swooped in and beyond these walls was one hell of a storm, the only suggestion of its existence being the racket of rain hammering at the walls and the occasional clap of thunder. But it's all warmth for Bonnie as she sits at the old fireplace with him in her arms—dead to the world having had drifted to sleep midway into storytime.

But if there was one thing lacking in this home it had been an impression of belonging, and so she'd be off to the commune the next morning just early enough when everyone was in slumber and the blazing sun hadn't yet risen.

Though in desperate need of a hit, Bonnie couldn't find it in herself to bring a single gram into the home. She wasn't about to take the entire family down with her and heaven forbid if the youngins of the family knew what she was doing once she was so often out and about. But she could feel it in deep in her aching bones that withdrawal was closing in, and that there wouldn't be release in shooting up, but at least it wouldn't get her so sick that she'd risk death...she'd already seen it once at the commune.

Bonnie's eyes sag but she's sleepless, stroking at David's black locks—the very kind of hair that defined the members of the Perez family. There's no place finding rest here, not when thinking that no matter dead or alive that the devil was coming for her. He'd restlessly wander through the halls, waiting for the perfect moment where she was most vulnerable at a time where no one could watch.

And when she could fall asleep the memories of him were resurrected from the dead, and many nights from Bonnie's room came forth the screams that fear had silenced countless times in the past. Waking up didn't mean there would be peace, yanking her back to reality with a body sticky in sweat and a set of lungs panting for a breath. But the worst part of the process had to have been the helpless look on aunt Marge's face before black dots undertook her sight.

Shortly after Minnie had been hospitalized, Aunt Marge came to sleep with her to chase those nightmares away—in her own words. And to this day, Bonnie doesn't think she knows what miracle it had done. 'Cause she'd also chased the devil away without knowing, so as long as she'd lingered through the night.

It's half past midnight and Roy is still there at there at her side, staring at the black and white fourteen-inch television. Conversations were easygoing until they'd touched on the topic of middle brother William, who'd come home from 'Nam in less than one piece. Bonnie didn't know the details but that both legs were gone below the knees, and with him bound to a wheelchair he'd settled down with his wife in Tulsa, living in what seemed like a divide from the rest of world. But she understood them more than anyone else in the family.

"You've heard from Will recently?" Bonnie whispers into the space heated by the glow of the fireplace, careful as to not throw her brother out of a kind of sleep so serene.

It takes a moment but in the end, her brother's deep-toned voice comes to surface as his gaze drops from the TV to his lap. "No Bon, not in awhile. All I know is that he's at his house with the wife. Poor woman ain't taking it too well, him comin' home from 'Nam without legs and all."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. I just don't remember the last time he's been in this home..." Bonnie laments, remembering the chill that went down her spine when she'd expected a fully intact brother to come home and instead being greeted with the one in that wheelchair, scarred for the rest of his life in more ways than one.

Roy shoots a strange look, his eyebrows furrowing before raising his voice to speak. "Hey, I don't remember the last time you step foot in his home before you got jumped."

"Shh. You'll wake David up if you're talkin' too loud," she fires back as soon as he's finished, catching a breath before she has the chance to lose control. " I know, Roy. It just ain't very welcoming here when you're a filthy junkie like me. The commune is where it's at and that's the way it is."

"I ain't denying that, Bonnie. It's your right but David told me he's been missing you. We all miss you 'round here. And you ain't filthy so stop with the bullshit."

"I'm sorry, Bubba. I just can't stay here. You know Sodapop? He's been in the psych ward at Tulsa General ever since he came out of that coma. I've got business to do outside these walls to pay for the bills, too."

"You know, I don't forget it when anyone mentions somethin' about a psych ward. Mama was always in and out..." He gives her shoulder a squeeze at the thought of their mother, those same brown eyes as hers all of a sudden dismayed. "So, when you leavin' at? Givin' us time to say goodbye this time?"

"I was thinkin' this mornin' at six," Bonnie admits, shrugging as she seeks to avoid the look of a brother that was must've been chagrined. "They're expecting me soon and I have to make a visit to Soda one of these days."

But he knew that it had been part of her nature—that no words could change whatever had been settled within her stubborn mind. And in the following moment of silence is when the outcries of a hungry baby come blaring from the tiny nursery, putting an end to a conversation he'd knew would go nowhere in particular. "Alright, I see how it is. Well, I think you should get to bed in the meanwhile. You feelin' okay?"

The words that spill from Bonnie's mouth are quick when she spills the fattest lie she's told in a while: "I'm doin' just fine. Now please get Paige to stop her crying 'cause my head's pounding."

The will to respond doesn't come to Roy as he comes to his feet, and before he makes a stride towards the halls is when his head spins to give the final stare—eyes as painful as knives when those darkened landing on his sister. And from one moment to the next, she's got the impression he knows the truth all too well. But there's no way there'll be a thing all right until Bonnie is on the road watching as the barn house vanishes from the rearview mirror; this fucking blessing and a curse of a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot you'd take time out of your life to read what write—what I pour my heart into :)


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah shit here we go again, with me and my inconsistent updates. Anyway, I hope you don't find this one a huge and utter disappointment. Enjoy!

Early morning in springtime. It was supposed to be her favorite time of the year. Bonnie could hear the rustle of leaves on walnut trees and feel the heat of the mighty sun, radiating from the windows and falling against her cheek. If it had been a different day or in another life, she would've drowned in the beauty of scattered flower fields and a sky perfectly blue.

That would've been if her eyes weren't too heavy to keep open and if the upheaval hadn't come to rob her of a good night's sleep. And instead, she lay underneath a mountain of blankets, shivering no matter how the slightest twitch had every muscle in her body throbbing. And as she drifts through the memories she'd much rather had forgotten, all Bonnie could do was swallow back the bile that made way up her throat and hope another round of vomiting wouldn't hit so soon.

The unexpectedly bitter season of spring was warming up and into a hot summer, and with a baby on the way—her body the vessel of human life—Bonnie thought that maybe her look on life should've started doing the same. But she could never shake off the cold that came with living the life she wasn't meant to live. But knowing that she would no longer face this journey by her lonesome, Bonnie would have to face the agony of being away from the drugs the reason she still walked the earth.

And as time keeps on slipping away, it's painfully lonely until her younger brother walks in, a wet washcloth in his hand. A single look into David's eyes bright with youth and it's obvious that he doesn't understand what's going with his sister, sick and sweating. But whether he does or not, he spends the night at her side and those early hours with aunt Marge doing the best he could to help. Not a word comes out of his big mouth and as silence lingers like a bed of clouds over the sky, Bonnie's heart mends knowing there is a presence nearby, his dainty fingers entangled with hers.

Another pair of footsteps rattle the wooden floor and at the doorway, she gets a picture of her aunt Margaret and her eyes, shining but having lost their twinkle, hazy to the point they're unreadable. In the natural glow, it's clear that the gray at her hairline has grown and these days, it's clear why time seems to be catching up sooner on her than it passes. "Hey, sweets. How you doin'?" She croaks, sounding no better than the way she looks. Staring back at her little brother, Marge gives out a faint smile and a sigh follows. "You've been a great brother, hun. But I think it's time for you to get some sleep, don't you think?"

"Yeah, kiddo. Thanks for everythin', now get some rest," Bonnie whispers, her head sinking back into the pillow and eyes slipping shut. She only knows he's gone when his fingers let loose, and when her heart begins to ache for her little brother to come back. A few cold fingers brush against her cheek and it's only then she realizes Aunt Marge is there, her presence clouded by the all-consuming sickness. "You should sleep too, auntie. Got a long day ahead."

"You know I can't leave you here like this, Bonnie." All she can do in response is moan and swallow thickly, wrapping her arms around her stomach. And as always, aunt Marge can read Bonnie without having to say a word, her smile shifting into a frown. When she speaks, it sounds urgent. "Hey, let's get you to sit up. You're looking like you're about to hurl any minute now..."

A pair of arms help Bonnie into a sitting position and one holds at her chest, keeping her weak body from pitching over. Aunt Marge reaches for the trashcan, placing it on her lap and shifting the wet strands of hair from Bonnie pale face to behind her ears—Marge's voice soft and coaching, her touch soothing. "It's alright, sweetie. Just let it out, you'll feel better."

She doesn't know how much time is spent heaving the contents of her stomach, but Bonnie knows it's been a hot minute when she struggles for breath and her throat feels like sandpaper. After it's over, she opens her eyes to find Marge bent over, wiping her sweaty mess of a face with a washcloth. One good look is all it takes to see a woman who's trying her hardest to keep it together, with a warm smile on her face that doesn't reach those eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Marge? What the hell's goin' on?"

"I know what you're thinkin'," she mumbles, popping a cigarette in her mouth and holding the flame of the lighter to the tip. It's silent for a second when smoke fills the empty air and after a tense sigh, Marge goes on. "...It's just so hard to see you like this, darling. Then there's your grandma who I've gotta take to see the doc, and your sweet momma lyin' there in the nursing home that's gonna be taken off life support one of these days."

That's when tears start rolling, like raindrops onto her loose fit blouse. "I'm sorry, sweetie. These days I haven't been myself. Maybe I should've told you more about what's happenin' with your kin, but it's like you're never here for me to tell it. Now that you're here, you've just been so sick and I don't know what I can do."

Bonnie rubs her heard where it's been pounding for hours on end, grimacing. "Don't worry about me. I don't get why you do in the first place, givin' a rat's ass about someone like me. I'm worried about grandma and momma too but . . . I never belonged with the rest of my blood." Her eyes go as dark as an eclipse when she says, "It don't mean I ain't happy to be here with you, but I think I need to leave-"

"Christ, Bonnie. I ain't letting you give up so easy. And not just for your sake, but for that baby inside you too. It's too dangerous to do what you do, selling drugs and doin' them at that..." Suddenly, her eyes shift to look at the doorway and David comes to sight, a phone receiver in his hand as the cord trails behind him.

"Thought you were supposed to be asleep, David. What's with the look on your face?" Bonnie asks, her brows furrowed in puzzlement. Taking in the look of his eyes, the girl knows they look like her own, and about to ask what's wrong, she sees it in his hand. "Who's callin', bud?"

"There's a man who says his name is Soda on the phone," David says, his eyes lighting up as he starts to the giggle at what can only be the oddity of the name. "He says he wants to talk to you. Who's that?"

"Nobody you oughta know, honey," Marge sighs, shaking her head like there's no tomorrow. She stares into those shameful brown eyes that seem like a mirror, her niece's identical to hers, before finally gaining the strength to speak. "Think you can sit up and get this one?"

"I ain't dying, auntie," Bonnie scoffs, grabbing the phone out of her kid brother's hands before he can start questioning her whereabouts—of the broken man on the other end of the line. Met with deafening silence, her grip on the receiver is unsteady and her breath is stolen before it can begin.

"Soda...that you? Still there?" she tries again and for a moment, Bonnie forgets where she is, caught in a snare that's confined to a world where only this confession matters. It's the revelation that either breaks or makes their lives, and it's about to be said from a hunk of rubber.

"Bonnie..." Soda's voice materializes through telephone lines, and it's the first word, with a tone sounding like he's gone through hell and back, that she knows the rocky roads she and he will travel.

* * *

That's when two brothers discover that in hindsight, they shouldn't have let the phone into Soda's hands. Pony and Darry had come in the morning, hopeful that their brother was on the mend in the coming days. But as they approached their resting brother, took in the unnatural stillness that didn't belong even in his sleep and his limbs tied to the bed frame, that they knew recovery was anything but linear.

_"Mr. Curtis had a severe panic attack last night from what could only be one of his nightmares." Dr. Brown says, answering to the silence that hid their questions. "He's sedated and restrained for your safety and the best thing for him is to keep him as calm as possible. Remember that even though your brother is showing signs of recovery, he is still in a fragile state."_

Soda wakes up disoriented from his drugged sleep, struggling to keep his heavy eyelids open but fighting against the urge to give in. Thrashing and writhing against the restraints, he's more than relieved to find them hovering over, and soon his hands and arms set free. As Pony's hand finds itself in his, memories wash over of this a familiar feeling—in a state beyond hazy and confused—but still finding an anchor of comfort to hang onto. And little does he know it's the same, fleeting sense he'd felt caught in his coma.

Darry's concerned that his little brother is drugged to the point where he can't live because then things would've turned full circle, and nothing would've changed at all. And with his hand on Pony's shoulder, he's losing count of how many times Soda has fallen apart and losing faith. But he can almost cry in relief when he sees his brother open his eyes and recover from a night where demons came from the shadows, slithering like snakes.

_"Can I use the phone?" Soda asks and his voice is timid, wide eyes like a child afraid. Suddenly, he turns to glance at his younger brother, who can only give a tiny smile in return. "Haven't heard from my girl in a long time. Just wanna check if everything's alright."_

He eventually gets his wish, and Darry approves it for the sake of happiness. Even if it means just getting to see those eyes light up, like fireworks on the fourth, and to see his pearly whites exposed in a smile...

"We're having a baby," comes from her breath as loud and clear as day, but it's difficult to understand at first. His eyebrows furrow, and like a ticking time bomb, it takes a moment for it to arrive. When it does, it's blast is almost enough to bring him off his feet.

Soon, the world's spinning at a speed so fast his mind can't keep up with it. It's difficult to believe, the woman who doesn't believe in bringing kids to the world telling him she's knocked up with his baby. "H-how far along?"

"Eight and a half weeks..." Bonnie whispers, and he can see those tears welling up in her eyes when he hears her voice come again, more broken than it's ever been heard before. "Uh, babe?"

"I'm gonna have to call you back." Soda grabs the phone off his ear and for a minute, not a twitch comes from him so still. But then dramatic as it is like in the movies, it slips out of his skinny fingers, crashing against the wall and dangling on a wire. "Um," is the only word that slips out of his stifled breath, hands making way to his face.

Soda hears panic through his dizzying vision when suddenly he's been pushed into a chair. "What happened, Pepsi-Cola?" Darry's voice comes through a fog as hands cup the sides of Soda's pale face. "Tell me, what the hell happened?"

"Bonnie's expectin'," He mumbles, and with a small phrase that means so much more, he's already sweating bullets from his forehead. "It's fucking mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It means a lot to me. :)


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